This is a character I've been playing in a discord RP server. You'll have to forgive some of the lore inaccuracies, maybe she'd be elven or Hundi if I work her into a proper lore-fitting character.
ADALIA
(Just imagine she has Hundi ears)
| 20-25? | Female Hundi | Curse-eaten Scribe |
| PERSONALITY |
The outline of Adalia’s personality can be summed up in a single word: anxiety. At any given time her mind is nearly overloaded with a huge amount of questions, parentheticals and doubts. She is indecisive, clumsy and will always try to defer any judgment calls she makes to another authority figure she trusts, although given her shyness the number of those who Adalia considers as trustworthy is astoundingly limited. Overall, she is bright and can think quickly when the situation calls for initiative, but often gets entirely bogged down by her own thoughts unless someone is there to direct her out.
Underneath all that chaos, there is a strong throughline of determination, and she can have bursts of motivation and passion when she believes strongly in something. That is, she can overcorrect for her indecisiveness with recklessness and hot-headed directness.
| BACKSTORY |
Adalia's early childhood is a blur to her and remains a constant mystery. She knows that she was a quiet and sickly girl, lucky to be in a sheltered and rich household. She knows that she developed an interest in magic from a young age, and miraculously discovered her affinity for it despite her Hundi bloodline. She knows, at some point, there was a massive snowstorm...
And that's all she remembers before waking up somewhere different -within a cottage-like library near howling, water-shriven cliffs. She was sitting among a large collection of various arcane tomes that were collected from across the globe, and strewn about those tomes were twisted and charred corpses of some unrecognizable flesh masses. Her questions with passing travelers were met with confusion, as the young Hundi girl had seemingly popped up from absolutely nowhere. Several years in her memory had simply vanished from existence, along with any trace of where she had come from or where she was going. She had somehow been transported to a world far removed from her own, a familiar land shaped by forces yet entirely foreign to her.
Her only comprehensible clue to her past was an old journal laid clean amongst the altar of the library, presenting itself as the key to all her questions. Her journal. It was written in her handwriting, with her signature, frenetic dance of pictures and diagrams scrawled all over the pages and ink bleeding through each page like a festering wound. Only, she could not only decipher the frenzied writing style, but the entirety of the journal was buried under ciphers and ciphers, and in a language that she could not understand. Somehow, this other side of herself lost to memory had written instructions to a whole host of mad and monstrous rituals that her sane self could not understand.
It took some time before Adalia could gather herself, orient to her surroundings, and set off into the wide world. Out of the madness, there was a single sentence that she could still read in her journal, the only sentence that was dignified with legibility: FIND THE IRON ROSES.
| EQUIPMENT |
Enigmatic Journal: A journal Adalia found beside her when she awoke in the seaside cabin. Its contents are as unknowable as they are kaleidoscopic, formatted in strange and archaic languages. Despite this, Adalia can sense an intense power trapped underneath all its writings, and she can invoke fragments of it through enunciating its contents. Perhaps if she were to find some kind of library or linguist she'll be able to find out what happened eventually... It is seemingly indestructible through any conventional means, and it always returns to Adalia whenever she loses it, even if she tries to get rid of it intentionally. When someone with the intent to harm attempts to approach Adalia, it will suddenly open up to a random page in an attempt to get Adalia to read it. It can be described as ‘generally cursed’ and gives off ‘bad vibes’, but is otherwise an ordinary looking book filled with scribblings of an insane madman.
Enchanted Coffee Cup: A lifesaving cup of coffee, with little exaggeration. This dainty little cup fills itself upon the user's whims with a warm cup of coffee with too much sugar. It is decorated with traditional Hundi calligraphy and depictions of past Hundi conquests in tiny fonts. Bearing many scratches across its surface, it has certainly seen better days - but it is a faithful companion to Adalia's long nights.
Slightly Cursed Jewellery: Her travel funds. It is a small jewelry box full of lavishly decorated accessories, as if taken from a duchess’ chambers. Most of the jewelry is ‘slightly cursed’, such as making the wearer dance terribly or keep stubbing their toes. They're fun party tricks, although the jewellery box came with the warning that the jewellery are capable of being 'improvised demolition tools'. Better not think about that too much.
| SKILLS |
Various Hexes: From what little she can understand of her journal, it is brimming with a complex interlocking pattern of hexes. Adalia has since picked up a few of her own, although most of them focus on disarming and debilitating than doing real harm. This include hexes that slow enemy reflexes, make them lose their sense of balance, or be temporarily blinded. These can all be powered up tremendously if it is invoked directly from her journal, but also gain random side effects that Adalia tries to avoid.
Tracelight: Adalia can summon a small controllable orb of blue light that illuminates the surroundings. This light gives off special luminosity that dispels any arcane sources of blindness or invisibility and highlights a holographic recording of the surroundings several hours in the past, much like a security camera. This orb can track some distance away from Adalia before it must be returned to Adalia.
Gravity Manipulation: Her specialization into celestial magics came with a mastery over gravitational fields. She can increase or decrease the gravitational pull over large areas to several times their magnitude for brief bursts, or have a finer control over smaller objects with a greater force. In the brief time she spent to relearn her usual repertoire, she has learned to apply this to various applications such as faux-telekinesis, faster travel and a clumsy style of fighting close quarters with her staff that includes briefly manipulating its weight in various positions.
Wildlight: A panic response whenever things go poorly, and something that Adalia avoids whenever possible. She picks out an unknown spell from her book and casts it at full strength. Her innate affinity with celestial magic will translate whatever magic that is cast into a frenzied torrent of light in front of her, scorching and blinding any creatures in a wide radius. However, side effects may vary greatly depending on the spell cast, ranging from a simple overload of Adalia's energy to summoning of nearby spirits or transmutation of nearby materials.
| TALES |
One, two, three, four. The glasses clink against each other as she adds the fifth member to the party of empty bottles, the leftover liquor shining in the tavern campfire. Some of the brown-black liquor had congealed themselves into the mugs into sweet-bitter spots, left neglected from a bartender who had decided several hours ago that the strange girl in the corner was neither a threat nor a responsibility. The lone Hundi remained in the chillness of the room, bathed gently in the low humming of the lights above. She was rather overdressed for the weather, her little figure puffed up and overcoat dragging each time she shifted around in her seat. Her brown hair flowed listlessly over her eyes, picked up and twiddled absentmindedly. It was a little cold, and more than a little late.
Adalia could feel the sores from her terrible slouch slowly spread their tendrils of pain from her lower back to her shoulder, the rest of her body barely awake enough to even understand that they were supposed to be in much bigger pain than they were. Her backpack, scrunched up in the corner, had fallen asleep from its post and lay scattered drooping unto the floor, but Adalia paid it no mind. The entirety of the world was swallowed up in the pages in her hands, those leaping and snarling strands of words and logic tangled up in a huddled mess of ink. She mutters carefully words traced underneath her fingertips, taking extra precaution to not draw any attention - not that anyone in the now empty bar could ever care. Then, with a whimper of disappointment, she massages her sore shoulders and tries again. No, not this time.
It had been several weeks since she had arrived in this small village, her way rarely helped by the outdated map she carried with her. It was a satellite village branching off to the side of the main pathway through the border of Thaln, and one that Adalia had sought shelter in for the night. Yet as the night waxed into being, her mind remained on her ever enigmatic journal, its inscrutible contents ever occupying her memory. She had thought she found a lead, some kind of pattern that could even get a crack open into the contents of the journal. An incantation, hidden within the mad scripture, spoken like a locksmith's miracle.
Thought, of course, is past tense. Now is present tense, and it is not doing her any favors. Adalia slumps over and nibbles on the pages of the book, a petty, animalistic revenge against the thing that had plagued her mind for so long. This thing that had contained her rapt attention for too long, and the answer to her questions that remained so tantalizingly close, so utterly far. Why was it in a language she could not understand? Why was it ciphered in so many arcane glyphs to ward off any attempts to steal it - or even get rid of it?
Why the hell was it in her own damned handwriting?
Adalia's joints rejoices in painful celebration as the girl rises finally from her seat, and what could be dust falls off her lap. This time - this time, she'd go back over what she knew, and this time she'll just try to keep to the outline of what she knew. Nothing too deep - only the surface. Yes - Adalia lightly taps her forehead yet again to remind herself of this little mantra.
Number one. The journal was - is, old. Just looking at the journal could give anyone the impression of its age, but just flipping its pages lent a deeper look into the true depth of its age. It was leatherbound, with binding methods that was different from all the books she saw even in the sea-side cabin, so it was likely that she found the book and wrote in it rather than the other way around. But why weren't there any other writing other than her own? Was the book an empty relic of some kind, or was it her handwriting because she was the one looking at it?
Number two. The book is cursed. Very, very cursed. The last time she showed it to a curator, the curator got overeager with the decoding and got blinded for two days. It seems that there is a security measure involved with just any old person trying to take a crack at the puzzle. Then again, it also seemed to curse people that would present a threat to Adalia's person or itself, and the curator had a rather peculiar way of approaching the book. In any case, the thing was *alive* in some sense, and it seemed to listen in on everything around it and act of its own enigmatic mind.
Number three. The journal is hers, whether she liked it or not, and in more ways than just her own handwriting. The words, even the ones that she could not plainly read, has a sort of rhythm with its punctuations. When it is - was - 'sane', it is stuttering and repetitive with its first header throughout its paragraphs, in a similar style Adalia remembers writing with. Its punctuations appears in similar stages, and in similar frequencies. It could only mean one consistent writer, even though that writer's handwriting got visibly worse over the course of the journal.
...And that is about it. Or was it? Come on. Open the book up a bit. There's more to dig here, surely? Adalia lets the journal go from her mouth and paces around the aisles next to the bar stools, catching stray looks from the weary bartender. "Miss." Adalia could hear the end of the bartender's grumble float off in its tired lilt, like a shambling, weary dog. Perhaps her time was up, after all. Adalia presses her lips together and smiles an apology. Adalia looks at the now slightly dampened book, watching with queasiness as its shadows flicker and slither across her hand. The day is finally dead.
Adalia Black hair, black eyes, short with light skin. Mid 20s, Hundi. Myself. Woke up a couple months ago with retrograde amnesia. I have this cursed book written in my handwriting, and I've had a couple strangers chase me for it. I found notes that made me go to the Iron Roses Knights for safety, but I have no clues other than this book to figure out my past. Hundis like me are supposed to be from a northern country called Ithillin, but somehow I can speak both Ithillaine and Thaln. I must've had some kind of educated upbringing.
Fanilly Danbalion Blonde hair, blue eyes, short with light skin. 16 years, human. Apparently the captain of the Knights? She's a little awkward but it's clear she has at least some experience leading stuff, which is good. Apparently the Knights pick the Captain according to whoever is born on the full moon, and Fanilly had to take up the banner at a young age. I'm glad I don't have to shoulder such a burden at a young age.
Tyaethe Radistrin Long white hair, red eyes, short with pale skin. Unknown Age, vampire. The Youngest, but that title is misleading. She does look pretty young and short, and I thought she was barely older than Fanilly when I first saw her. But she's supposedly a vampire who's lived all this time and was in the original founding members of the Knights centuries ago. She certainly acts acridly enough. I've been avoiding her since I've heard her reputation is pretty fierce, but I can't tell if that comes from battles or just her usual attitude.
Fionn MacKerracher Short brown hair, brown eyes, tanned skin, stocky and tall. Mid twenties, human.
Gerard Segremors Unkempt black hair, amber eyes, fair skin, average height. 21 years, human.
Fleuri Jodeau Average height. 25 years, human.
Rolan Herzog Short black hair. Fair skin, average height. 27 years, human.
Gertrude Jager Blonde long hair, green eyes, light skin, short. 19 years, human.
The outline of Adalia’s personality can be summed up in a single word: anxiety. At any given time her mind is nearly overloaded with a huge amount of questions, parentheticals and doubts. She is indecisive, clumsy and will always try to defer any judgment calls she makes to another authority figure she trusts, although given her shyness the number of those who Adalia considers as trustworthy is astoundingly limited. Overall, she is bright and can think quickly when the situation calls for initiative, but often gets entirely bogged down by her own thoughts unless someone is there to direct her out.
Underneath all that chaos, there is a strong throughline of determination, and she can have bursts of motivation and passion when she believes strongly in something. That is, she can overcorrect for her indecisiveness with recklessness and hot-headed directness.
| BACKSTORY |
Adalia was always a quiet girl, and she was perfectly happy to keep things quiet. She was a diligent and patient student, honing her craft from a young age and showing a bright future to join the ranks of the Crusade and becoming the pride of her little village. When she was eighteen she was sent off from her secluded village in the heartlands of Favonia in a grand tradition to bring back a relic worthy of the Church. The departure ceremony was grand, tearful and hopeful at the undoubtably bright future ahead of her. She remembers setting off with a heavy heart but wand at the ready and...
And that's all she remembers before waking up somewhere different -within a cottage-like library near howling, water-shriven cliffs. All she had on her were well-worn garbs of an official apprentice, sitting among a large collection of various arcane tomes that were collected from across the globe. Her questions with passing travelers were met with confusion, as she and a hooded figure taller than her had been living together in the cabin for a long time. Several years - no, several decades in her memory had simply vanished from existence. She had somehow been transported to a world far removed from her own, a familiar land shaped by forces yet entirely foreign to her.
Her only comprehensible clue to her past was an old journal laid clean amongst the altar of the library, presenting itself as the key to all her questions. Her journal. It was written in her handwriting, with her signature, frenetic dance of pictures and diagrams scrawled all over the pages and ink bleeding through each page like a festering wound. Only, she could not only decipher the frenzied writing style, but the entirety of the journal was buried under ciphers and ciphers, and in a language that she could not understand. Somehow, this other side of herself lost to memory had written instructions to a whole host of mad and monstrous rituals that her sane self could not understand.
It took some time before Adalia could gather herself, orient to her surroundings, and set off out of the cabin. For all her fears and tribulations, she knew one thing - get to a library and try to unearth what had happened to her, whatever the cost.
| EQUIPMENT | Enigmatic Journal: A journal Adalia found beside her when she awoke in the seaside cabin. Its contents are as unknowable as they are kaleidoscopic, formatted in strange and archaic languages. Despite this, Adalia can sense an intense power trapped underneath all its writings, and she can invoke fragments of it through enunciating its contents. Perhaps if she were to find some kind of library or linguist she'll be able to find out what happened eventually... It is seemingly indestructible through any conventional means, and it always returns to Adalia whenever she loses it, even if she tries to get rid of it intentionally. When someone with the intent to harm attempts to approach Adalia, it will suddenly open up to a random page in an attempt to get Adalia to read it. It can be described as ‘generally cursed’ and gives off ‘bad vibes’, but is otherwise an ordinary looking book filled with scribblings of an insane madman.
| SKILLS |
Tracelight: Adalia can summon a small controllable orb of blue light that illuminates the surroundings. This light gives off special luminosity that dispels any arcane sources of blindness or invisibility and highlights a holographic recording of the surroundings several hours in the past, much like a security camera. This orb can track some distance away from Adalia before it must be returned to Adalia.
Hardlight: Adalia can summon basic objects summoned out of 'hardened light' that can be employed for various purposes. Hardlight summoned by Adalia will most closely resemble the durability of steel but brittle enough to shatter. It has no amount of 'weight' to it, and is translucent blue in all forms. Once created, it must be maintained with a proportionate amount of concentration and energy usage, otherwise it dissipates without a trace. Adalia has not mastered control over it yet and can make very crude geometric objects out of it, like a perfectly circular buckler or an uncomfortably square helmet. It is usually why Adalia mostly uses this type of magic for temporary step stools rather than more practical uses.
Wildlight: A panic response whenever things go poorly, and something that Adalia avoids whenever possible. She picks out an unknown spell from her book and casts it at full strength. Her innate affinity with light magic will translate whatever magic that is cast into a frenzied torrent of light in front of her, scorching and blinding any creatures in a wide radius. However, side effects may vary greatly depending on the spell cast, ranging from a simple overload of Adalia's energy to summoning of nearby spirits or transmutation of nearby materials.
Lein is possibly the furthest you can get from the stereotype of the honourable Hundi. He's sarcastic, disquiet and arrogant, holding no true reverence to no creed nor code and an open displeasure at notions of romantic chivalry. Although he knows when to shut up and sit still when it counts, there's always an undercurrent of wild mischievousness to much of what he does. As soon as Lein's superiors look the other direction, he's always looking for ways to tug the end of his chain, make a quick pocket of coins and slack off when he can't do either.
Despite this usual mischief, Lein does have a strong sense of kinship, however, and though in rather unconventional, round-about ways, Lein always strives to return a favour when he is granted one. He's likely to deflect with a cynical remark when pressed about his loyal side.
In a rather odd turn, he has a strange obsession about always having enough food to eat, even willing to carry more than his fair share of cargo if it means they are well-supplied.
| BACKSTORY |
Of the many banners that adorned the Hundi castles, the blue and gold banner of House Estouls was once counted as among the greatest. Following a strict code of traditionalism and ceremony, those who held its crest were seen as exceptional combatants that frequently 'conquered' smaller Houses through duel-marriage pacts. But this was a long time ago, and decades of political sabotage, mismanagement and inflexibility led to the pitiful decline of the Estouls name.
Lenivicus ves Estouls was the youngest of the House, but for his exceptional talents in marksmanship, was regarded as the future of the House. So it was impressed upon him the value of holding honor above all else, and the weight of his life would be measured in the laurels of the Estouls banner. But as his many siblings were 'conquered' by other Houses one by one, Lenivicus also taught himself the price of that honor, slowly eating away at his family.
And so Lenivicus developed different ideas. He spent much of his nights looking up at the skies and dreaming of claiming dominion over the stars that had thus far been so maligned for his family. His aloofness conflicted with his family's priorities of preservation and tradition, and no amount of cajoling or berating could stop Lein from sneaking out from his training grounds to watch the stars. Ceremonies often devolved to arguments between Lein and the few remaining House members over the point of all the empty seats at the table. When Lenivicus was denied his Rite of Passage and was ordered to remain within the House grounds to train, Lenivicus was outraged at this display of hypocrisy from the 'traditionalist' Estouls. He renounced his House and stormed off in a Rite of his own declaration.
In the next couple of years, 'Lein' made his way through the world, eventually resorting to thievery with the occasional piracy. At this point, Lein's retelling of his next couple of years before he was impressed into the Roses become... messy. On some days, he regales locals about how he fought bears for a living, others he describes in flush detail how he took up work as the bodyguard of a mysterious elven lord. None of these tales explain how he lost his right arm, nor where he even got the prosthetic to replace said arm. Some way or another, he showed up in front of the Knights' keep one day and asked to be taken in, claiming he "lost a bet". After showing off his marksmanship skills, he was inducted into the Knights (though some might say suspiciously too hastily).
Ever since, Lein had become quite good at performative brinkmanship; lax just enough to annoy his superiors but never enough to be kicked off.
| EQUIPMENT |
Enchanted scarf: An enchanted scarf with a series of bells attached to the end of it. Given to Lein as per tribal custom, it has natural cleansing wards that filters any air passed through it. The bells chime at the presence of significant wind in a distinct pattern attributable for each scarf.
Fancy tail brush: For the sophisticated and vain.
Worn Estouls crest: Lein keeps this hidden away, even if he's always tempted to throw it away.
Ironripping shortbow: A reflex bow with high tensile strength, designed for fast knocking and incredible penetrative power at short ranges. Operated with a thumb ring, it can either be loaded with regular arrows or steel darts to further enhance its short-range potential.
Advanced steel arm prosthetic: An astoundingly intricate invention of artificery. Composed of carefully shaped iron and encased in enchanted steel, it is quite durable and only slightly heavier than a regular arm, whilst its rope operated ivory fingers allow for accurate dexterity. It seems far too expensive for some common rogue to get their hands on, but any sign of its maker has been long since scratched off. Hidden compartments contain a few spare steel darts and a small blade.
| SKILLS |
Having been raised as an heir to the Estouls, Lein's not too bad at the standard knightly affairs, being familiar with the ins and outs of horse riding and courtly manners (though it's been quite the while since he's bothered), as well as some familiarity with swords and shields. If someone were to force him to act the part, he probably could.
Lein's marksmanship make quite clear why he was laden with so much expectation from his House; he can knock and fire arrows at a frightening pace, pelting his enemies while maintaining a taunting distance with alacritous dodges. Though his accuracy falls off quickly outside of optimal ranges, Lein's adaptability in grabbing whatever weapons he can improvise with helps mitigate his weaknesses in most bar brawls.
During his wandering days, Lein also picked up some odd connections and skills here and there - though none of these he makes apparent right up until he takes advantage of them. As a regular bar patron at the local haunt the Lonely Frame, Lein's quite good at dice games, especially cheating at them.
| TALES |
A worn crest, threaded with royal embroidery. Smudged with finger grime.
A piece of a Veltan fishing hook.
Three weighted coins, one with both sides as 'heads'.
A complex looking gear from an unknown artificer.
A stub of a whale oil candle.
A reference paper for a cipher, with a symbol of Mayon imprinted in the corner.
A can of balm for leprosy.
Three quills fashioned from griffin feathers.
A torn ledger of his 'stakes' and 'tabs' at local bars.
Two pieces of dried jerky, from unknown meat substance.
A roll of bandage, stained slightly from old blood.
The castle chapel was hardly the most welcoming place for a reunion. Its usual reverent atmosphere was replaced with the coldness of the flagstones and the pews held no audience but the occasional sound of ravens. Yet a darkly dressed Lein sat crouched, carefully arranging playing cards around the communion cup. His ears picked up feet tracking along the stone, and knew to finish up his game of solitaire. A little early, but diligence never hurt. The Hundi's hand sprang up and gave a little wave. "Ifreet! Bit early for a sermon, Sister?"
The nun was dressed in her usual ecclesiastic robes, but in place of a welcoming visage, her inset eyes were sharp. Her wiry frame that trod upon the chapel stones with measured reverence now carried itself swiftly through the darkness toward her accomplice. It was far from the soft-spoken image of the middle-aged nun that many had come to associate with the name Ifreet. "Got a message from the Bluetail. Urgent."
Lein didn't look up from the cards, playfully flicking a couple in Ifreet's direction. "Surely not any more urgent than a round of cards?"
It was typical, almost traditional, for Ifreet to lambast Lein for his use of the sanctified cup as a cardholder and play a round anyway. But not today. Ifreet darted a hand into her garment and threw the hidden cards down on the pew. Three aces. "Very urgent. An Ingvarr with a broken horn passed by the inn looking for anyone connected to the Knights. Dropped one of your names a couple times."
"Where? When?" Lein drew a sharp breath. In an instant, his slouched posture was rigid, attentive with every nerve.
"Marlea'an. Two days ago."
Lein slowly sat down on the pew. His gaze was distant and wavering. A nervous crack of Lein's bone knuckles rolled across the wooden beam. "...shit."
"You know him." Ifreet stared at the Hundi with terse curiosity. The fresh foreignness of Lein, shrunk and wavering, in turn alarmed the Sister. She had known the news was nothing pleasing, as the message from the innskeep was uncharacteristically curt. But to have the implacable rogue shiver was a first.
"It's the Estouls retainer, Hadrianus."
"A retainer?"
"THE retainer. One man is the point. He's the insurance. If he's moving, something must've happened back with the Estouls. Do you know anyone in the Veltian Cathedral?" Lein asked quickly.
"Some. Is he coming to drag you back?"
"Not coming for tea and crumpets, for sure. Reckon my Father's got a fire lit under his ass to make Hadrianus leave Ithillin like this. Can you check in with your friends?"
"You want me to send word to Velt? How about you?"
"I'll reason with the guy. Guy's a block but I reckon I can turn him around. Just a few days, yeah? I'll turn up once I set him running."
Ifreet crossed her arms. She had seen enough. "No."
"What?"
"Don't 'what' me." She hissed, pushing Lein back down unto the pew with her growl. "I know damned well you just want me out the way."
"I got this handled, Sister." Two empty hands up, like a criminal caught.
"First time you said that, you said you were broke out of your ass. Next I hear half the land's vanishers are hunting an Ingvarr in the dwarven realms. All of them dropped the hunt or wound up dead. This is him, isn't it? The Greyhorn."
Lein's tail bristled at the drop of the name. Somehow, the title felt far more realized than the retainer's own name. Lein smiled nervously. "Hard to hide a stature like his. Probably ate his twin to get that size."
"And you're what, 'handling him'? Alone?"
"Something like that."
"Fuck off."
"I'll take care of -"
"How?! Letting him shove your balls down your throat? You're pissing yourself like a pup! Sure as shit doesn't look like you can handle it!" Ifreet's snarled, her figure almost swelling with rage. Lein's gaze turned away, attempting feebly to deflect Ifreet's gaze looming over him.
"Who will? Doubt even the Knights can handle him. If this guy means to take me, you're certainly not gonna be doing much else than breathing dirt."
"So what! You want me to piss off to Velt and fuck a sheep while you get your tail ripped off?"
"If you mean to call on the Church, he won't give a jack if taking me means a few more dead nuns on his hands."
"Go suck a cock. In case you've forgotten, Oravin," Ifreet spat, jabbing repeatedly into Lein's chest, "you've a vow to keep."
"Right, and which part tells me to throw everyone undertow to save my own hide?" Lein shot back.
"We look out for our own. Don't matter who's hunting us."
"Your own? All I ever did was fetch a bunch of trinkets."
"Yes, our own. I don't know what's gotten you so spooked but this is out of just your hands." There was a silence in the chapel yet again. Ifreet sat down next to Lein, measuring his contemplation. When she spoke up again, her voice shifted strategy. Asserted, but coaxing. "Let me help you, Lein. I'm not going to throw the entire Church at him. Just stay low for now and I'll petition for Pardoners to come over. Whoever he is, the Greyhorn's not invincible."
It took a while for Lein to respond. "You're right. He's not invincible. He can bleed, and he can fall. Hell, if he tries some of your cooking he might even die. But you're wrong about one thing - what I'm asking you, ain't giving up."
"Bullshit."
"You don't think I have a plan?"
"No."
Lein gave a dramatic look of injury. Ifreet knew that he was confident enough to be hurt and backed off to let the Hundi spin his tale. "If I know anything about the old man, he's not the type to drag me back to the Chateau for family time. Chances are, he'd just keep working and bring me in where he's at. And if he's putting fires out in Velt?"
"The River Residence."
"Or the Grand Academy. As usual, Estouls nicked a bunch from their library a few generations back, and they've been hounding the House since. The guy still reckons he has a grip on that place. Either way, I'll need someone in the know. Someone to trust."
"That's a long way away for a gamble. You've better chances just keeping put."
"I'll take a long shot. Better there than Aimlenn where he can just pick right back up on me. Velt, I can take the fight to the seas. Lose him for good this time."
"You just came up with this one, didn't you."
"My best one yet, reckon?"
Ifreet was incredulous, but knew better than to keep up. "Tell me you'll at least let the Knights know."
Lein shrugged. "I'll think of something."
And there was the implacable rogue again, as stubborn as ever. Ifreet shook her head. "Reon's tits, you're insufferable."
"I was wondering where I got that phrase from. You're a pretty bad influence."
"Lein!"
"Yeah, yeah. A good Mayonite never lies twice. You have my word." Lein said, waving dismissively as he moved toward the chapel exit.
"Try to come back in one piece this time." Ifreet called after the retreating figure.
Hidden in Lein's pocket, he gripped the faded crest in his ossific hand. "Count on it."
Pardoner Seras Moving East. Close to Marlea'an
Don't Jump. Probably Routine.
Sent Word to Bluetail.
---
Attack West Perphanel. Claw Marks, Three Toes, Colinear Footsteps, Killed Three.
Not Griffin. Don't Walk Straight. Trick?
Ask First Last
No.
---
Jeramiah Remnants. Two Dozen In Mountain. Want Jeramiah Remains.
Tell Them. Fuck Off.
Bad Idea. But Funny.
---
Free Whittler. Lame Eyes, Handy at Leather. Help.
Travel Ok?
Yes. Can Speak Velt Ithillish
Send to Bluetail.
---
Help. Need Seras Residence Emptied.
Meet At Orph. 15th. Noon.
Have Fun.
Lein nodded as he penned the final lines of his letter by candlelight, the night-time breeze rolling over the battlements playfully flipping through the parchment. “And please assure Duke Kemlia that his daughter’s education is faring well, and we thank him once again for his patronage.” He mumbled, and turned to marvel at the sun receding into the horizon, consecrating the sky with one last blaze of orange and red. One of the few moments the wayward had grown to cherish in solitude and silence.
The next moment, Lein was pulling back an arrow in his bow, aiming directly across the battlements and to the emerging silhouette. He had already fired his first shot, burying dangerously close to the giant figure that had emerged from under the battlement hatch. He didn’t need to verify who the silhouette was. The towering physique, the controlled and statuesque movements and importantly, the undeniable scent of dry blood. Hadrianus.
The great retainer barely flinched as he reached over and pulled out the arrow from his shoulder, breaking the shaft with his grip. "Master Lenivicus. Your aim remains faulty."
"Only if you plan on wasting my time."
"Had you meant what you say, you would not have shot once."
Lein narrowed his eyes. "Why are you here?"
Hadrianus did not respond. Instead, he slowly turned his gaze over to the dim torch-flames of Aimlenn, specks of light privileging the dimming vastness of the city with distant proof of activity.
Lein waved back toward the battlements that had housed his temporary office. "Sit here so I can push you off."
The two took up post on adjacent indents. Lein eyed the retainer warily. "You've grown shorter."
"You've grown no taller."
Lein chortled in spiteful laughter. "Two weeks, huh? I'll shave off that other horn of yours in one."
"Master Lenivicus -"
"Mind calling me anything else? Drop the whole blasted servant act, and - hell, you know most of 'em. Oravin, Cashimere..."
"Dame Cteline?"
This time, Lein’s laughter was genuine, muted but caught unaware by the name. The incredulity was palpable. "Tell me you didn't track me with that one."
Hadrianus tilted his head, as if he did not understand the mirth. "No. I found a hobby in ballroom dancing."
"And grew a sense of humor."
"Your unfortunate by-product."
Lein had never heard such flattering words before. "Can't believe there was a time you tried to get outta chasing me around."
The atmosphere chilled once again, Lein’s giggle becoming a phantom sound running down the walls like wisps of stray dust. The Hundi and the Ingvarr watched as each light lumbered along, finding each other in the ocean of darkness before heading into brightly lit homes.
What broke the silence was neither of the two. A wind, carrying the dying warmth of a dusk that heralded the twilight, blew through the gap between the two of them. As it passed by Lein’s ears, it whispered an all too familiar line that Lein had only just buried with the ghost of a smirk.
They’re all going on without you.
"There's an Ingvarr like you back in the castle.” Lein began, silencing his own thoughts. “Reckon you're both from Baruk. Says his old man trained him up to be a leader of his clan. Real big guy too. Nicked his coat once, coulda sworn his arm's thicker than my head. All the strength to wrench the skies from its sockets. He's usin' it to file taxes. Says he prefers the gardening over his clan and all... Ain't that weird?"
"You keep familiar company." Hadrianus said simply.
"Point is. You keep talking like this is all a done deal. But I've shaken no hands and neither have you. All that chasing around - if you really mean it, you can look the other guy dead in the eyes and tell 'em to piss off. You walk."
"Has either of us ever succeeded?"
"You're the one who's keeping me."
"Mast - Oravin. Lein. I am one man. I cannot overturn the world."
"You still keep findin' me."
"And yet I do. You permit it so."
"Watch it, Had." Lein hissed.
Hadrianus ignored the warning, continuing unheeded. "And now you walk openly with your arm. You do not dye your hair. You extend alms when you would have turned. You are growing careless. Or you are weary."
The warning became a snarl. “I get enough preaching as it is from bastards who think they figured it all, and you sure as hell don’t figure shit."
"There still remains a way to finish your Keening."
"Think it's better to just stop talking and get it over with?" Lein peered over the battlements, legs dangling over the dusty walls. A long way down from here.
"Have you finished your affairs?"
"Should it matter?"
Silence. Lein shook his head and swung his legs back over the inside of the castle walls. "Sucks for both of us, then. Shoulda meant it when you said it."
"Lein." One word was all Hadrianus said, yet the unspoken warning was apparent to both of them. Leave, and we are enemies again. Leave, and there is only one way this ends.
"Hadrianus.” Lein did not turn for one last look at his retainer, wearing a weary smile that only he could know was there. “That's the problem with us, ain't it? Just don’t know when to quit."
with 12 equal payments of $19.99 and a properly filled out contract giving the GMs ownership over all of your creative output within the game
Do I at least get paid in exposure?
@LucidRain: Well, you need a solid character concept to start with.
Maybe a hundi who's distant from his family and ended up pursuing a trickier, more rogueish lifestyle.
Sounds like a bore. Can I maybe do a vindictive bastard child who will stop at nothing to get his just desserts instead?
Jokes aside I'll try to brainstorm an excuse for Lein to have left the group for a bit, and try to pick things back up once I get a chance to sit down. If of course, I am allowed to pick Lein back up. I'm more than happy to join with a different character though, I've a character concept lined up in that case.
Got in early in the CS but didn't really pick a character, so I guess I can take up an expansion character instead. I'm thinking I'll work on a Kida player once I get some time.
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