Lucky Knight

The Wolven Storm

Blueberries. Blueberries, and … peaches?

No, that can't be right.

Kaerun sipped at his flask again, keeping more of the whiskey on his tongue this time to try to parse through what it was he was tasting. Definitely blueberries amidst the incredibly sharp tang of homemade swill, but that second strain, that echo of fruit beneath it … he couldn't place it. Right on the tip of his tongue. So to speak.

He let the slow, easy movement of the horse beneath him soothe his thoughts in an effort to lull himself into an unconscious revelation, though he held out no hope of it working. Instead he tapped one of the arms that encircled his waist and pressed the flask into the first hand that freed itself from its grip.

“Try this.”

The voice of his companion was soft and distant. “Mm? What is it?”

Slow. Slurred. Had she been sleeping?

“I think you'll like it. Take a swig.”

The flask and the hand of its bearer disappeared. Moments later he felt a splash on the back of his neck and a sputtering dose of words that would've made a sailor blush. “Asshole! What is this? Pure alcohol?”

Not asleep anymore. Kaerun fought down a grin. “Blueberries and what else?”

“Blue … there are flavors in this?” He felt her move in the saddle behind him, and in his mind's eye he could see the raven-haired girl signing a ward against evil and chaos. A true believer? Or just someone with bad habits? “May the Lady defend me from the insanity of men.”

A pause, then: “Where are we?”

Kaerun reigned his horse in as they approached the main campsite. A few dozen Company soldiers had already begun clearing the ground and erecting tents. A couple of them had been set to work constructing rough fortifications – a bristling wall of wooden spikes that wouldn't do much to actually protect them beyond frightening would-be thieves – and Kaerun could practically feel the resentment and boredom radiating off of them.

That's why it always paid to arrive late, especially if it was seniority that dictated camp hierarchy like it was amongst the Wolves. A lesson crucial to attaining a modicum of happiness in the life of a dog of war.

Or … wait. Should he should be thinking himself less a 'dog' and more a 'wolf of war' now? Such things mattered to some. Ah, well. It would come in time, he supposed, if not necessarily the sort of time the Company had left in it. After all, he'd been one of the Captain's sword-arms for a barely decade and now they were riding into the jaws of annihilation.

This might be a very short stint indeed.

“We're a stone's throw from Orvston,” he answered, dismounting.

Once he was clear of the saddle he turned back to his companion and offered a hand. She accepted and descended from her seat as gracefully as she could. Which, truth be told, wasn't all that graceful. It was difficult to maintain dignity when it came to traveling; in his long life it had proven to be one of the great equalizers.

A cold breeze gripped the pair of them as she gained her balance on the pack earth beneath them. “Do you think it'll snow soon? I haven't seen any snow in ages.”

“Ages?” Kaerun asked, bemused.

She grinned. “Ages and ages.” Her smile was all teeth, and either through virtue of her youth or a vestige of the clean living she once adhered to, those teeth were still quite pretty. Odds were against her keeping them in the long run, though. Poor girl. In just a few decades she'd fall apart; he could already see the faintness of lines wearing into the edges of her eyes, and could spot where her skin would begin to sag.

What was that pity Old Tongue quip? “Such is the beauty of a human – a ray of candlelight upon rough waters.”

A quip that actually didn't sound nearly as cruel in the language of those it insulted as it did in the language of those who were assholes enough to immortalize it. What did that say of the elves? Nothing he didn't already know. Monsters, the lot of us, and there's the truest truth I know.

He put a hand upon his companion's shoulder. “Annah-”

“Arabella,” she said, correcting him.

“Sure. You've paid me to take you this far, and I'll try to get you to Orvston before sundown, but I can't make any promises. I'll have to check in with with the Captain before I can break camp and take you to town.”

She smiled again. “That's fine. Probably wouldn't have made it this far on my own, so waiting a little while longer won't kill me. And … it's been nice, having someone to watch over me, like this.” Something passed through her expression, an intensity that spoke of layers beneath her words. Was she honestly this thankful? “Anyway, I just wanted to say...”

A shadow fell across Kaerun's mind, a gentle presence that had an air of timidity about it. It was the soft probing of Will through the surface of his thoughts, hesitant to sift through what it found but never quite shying away from the deed. Connor.

He's getting better, Kaerun mused. A much lighter touch this time.

If nothing else he'd reached a point where his sending was stronger than anything Kaerun could manage himself. There was a glimmer of something like pride in that, that he could have served to witness the growth of one of their number in strength of Will. It kept people like the Cub alive when things got grim and bloody; the toothless ones who never bothered to improve or experiment were always the first to fall and the easiest to forget.

Sometimes he remembered the ones who tried.

Sometimes.

“... talked to them in years, but I just know they will.” Arabella met his eyes as he turned his attention away from the world within. “You know?”

“Sure.”

It took them only a few minutes to pull their supplies from the saddle bags. Once he was assured that everything had made the trip in intact – not that he had much in the way of possessions, nor did his companion – he dispatched Arabella to go house the horse while he set about erecting his tent. Muscle memory did the work for him – centuries of tentmaking left little room for conscious thought – while he let himself relax.

As he finished the sound of footsteps drew his attention to a young girl with a scrap of paper in her hand. She passed it off wordlessly and departed right after.

My Tent. Now.

Terse, tense, ominous. It suited the aura of … whatever it was that the Captain tried to project.

A strange young man, their Captain. But one worthy of respect in the few direct exchanges he'd had with the Company's illustrious leader. Most who led soldiers into battle had little regard for those that perished under their command; the Captain was different. Or as different as one could be … war was hardly a new profession, and there were certain immutable necessities and dark decisions that couldn't ever be avoided.

But he tried. And he imposed a code of honor to try to shape others the way he shaped himself, and that was commendable.

Taking only a few more moments to gather up his blade and a warm coat – he'd begun to feel the chill at last – he left for the Captain's tent, falling in with the others who were similarly summoned. Seeing them reassured a nagging doubt that he hadn't quite been able to articulate.

Did I ever inform the Captain I'd taken on a side job as an escort?

He could not for the life of him remember if he'd asked or not, but he supposed it didn't matter.

If this was a broad summons then whatever it was the Captain needed him for, it wasn't to berate him for his absent-mindedness (or worse, breaking codes of conduct … was this against their oath, or in violation of a bylaw?). It was hard to keep up with the rules of mercenary companies – most of them were ground into dust by the time he even memorized their symbols and company name, though this one might prove to the be the exception.

There was one more thing in the back of his mind … something else he couldn't quite …

Blackcurrant! Blueberries and a hint of blackcurrant! Where in the name of all the thrice-damned gods did the whiskeymaker get their hands on blackcurrant?

Now utterly untroubled, Kaerun followed the others into their commander's tent.

Arabella returned shortly after he departed and found herself abandoned, without explanation or apology, in the midst of a camp of cutthroat mercenaries and professional killers.

At least she'd held on to the whiskey.

The Wolven Storm

I am aiming to have my introductory post up this evening. Apologies for the delay -- weekends tend to be the busiest time of my week, for some reason.

The Wolven Storm

@Terminal
Are those D'ni numerals in your avatar?

The Wolven Storm

Kaerun Eschala

Basic Information

It is as it is said to be: The past is prologue. All else is wind, and that which is borne on it. Fleeting and impossible to capture once it's fled our grasp. Did we not feel righteous, once? We who were scorned? We who felt the world was owed us, and that those who stood in our way did so only to meet our swords with their flesh? What seems so bright and clear in the heat of morning is but a puzzling ember in the twilight hours, a distant dying light at the edge of a day bleeding swiftly into night.

Name: Kaerun Eschala.
Race: Elf.
Age: 706.
Magic Potency: Yes.

Physical Description
In defiance of the common ideal of elven grace and beauty, Kaerun is a beast of sinew and corded muscle with all the grace of a rock tumbling down a mountain. His long brown hair is ragged and self-cut, threaded through with streaks of mottled grey that belie the strength of his bearing. At some point he might have been handsome but the years have stripped away the fineness of his features, burying whatever glimmer of allure he once possessed beneath a veil of scars and broken bones.

The only real element he has that still marks him as a member of his race – beyond the pointed ears – are the piercing eyes of his bloodline. A pair of emeralds set beyond a flat, broken nose and scarred cheeks … a strange paradox that tries unsuccessfully to redeem him in the eyes of women anywhere. He is tall but scarcely taller than the average human. Should he wish it he might even pass for one of them (though only in darkness, or with a hood drawn up).

Tattoos cover most of his upper body (from mid-neck down to his waist), a myriad of colors and intensity. Curved lines and strange sigils that bear no clear meaning, patterns of vines and leaves and serpents. Some are ancient and others have yet to begin fading; they flow out from the first that he bears upon his back. It is as if he means to hide it, or to bury it in the centuries of ink and hours that followed. As he usually eschews clothes that would cover his arms these tattoos may be his most notable feature.

The gods only know that the rest is forgettable.

He usually wears whatever clothes are at hand, and his armor is basically just a thickly padded shirt and occasionally a studded leather vest thrown atop it, all of these designed to keep his muscular arms free and his body mobile. Old boots and weathered leggings accompany his usual attire, along with a thick belt and a number of trinkets and fetishes he's accumulated over the years. Five small strips of leather decked with red and topaz beads always adorn him in some fashion, often attached to his belt or to a leather cord around his neck. He bears his blade upon his back.

Military Background

Years Spent in Service: Kaerun has served the Company for about ten years now.

Equipment: (What are they carrying on their person?)

• A long, thin sword of sturdy steel. Akin to a bastard sword in versatility, though of clear elven origin.
• A canteen older than the Vorstag Empire, a gift from an old employer.
• Various fetishes from all corners of the continent; feathers, metal leaves, beads, etc.
• Five leather strips adorned with blood-red and topaz-colored stones, usually affixed to his belt.
• Small book of elven wisdom literature, the ink nearly faded away.

Skills: (List from most potent to least)

• Sword Dancer: Little else defines Kaerun the way his skill with the sword does; when he does not bear his blade he moves as a man without purpose, plodding and clumsy. But with his blade in hand he becomes a man possessed. The style of swordsmanship he carries was taught to him in his early days and has been refined and altered by his centuries of life. It is doubtful that his original master would even recognize it … but none could deny that he is more deadly now than he was in his youth.
• Cheater: Kaerun is quite skilled at the sleight of hand required to cheat at cards and dice. The only saving grace in this is his openness about the skill, and how easy it is to bribe him into playing fair. A bottle of rum usually suffices.
• Amateur Herbalist: Most plants and their properties are familiar to Kaerun. He knows a number of great concoctions for remedying a hangover … or worse. Practice makes perfect.
• Hedge Mage: Though he has never been properly instructed, Kaerun has developed some skill in the use of magic to keep himself alive over the years. Alas, he will never be recognized as a master of the craft.

The Mind

Psych Profile
Easygoing, friendly, often uninterested but rarely cruel about it, and extremely reticent when it comes to his personal history. More likely to bow out of a fight than to join in, though no stranger to adversity or conflict. He is not shy on the battlefield and fights as bravely as most … but it feels as if that bravery is a mask, and what it covers is something far less zealous if no less powerful. Much has happened in his life and it has dulled him to many of the experiences he now weathers. Most of his days are eaten up by the rituals he's accumulated – including his dedication to the blade and his meditations on the scant arcane arts he possesses.

History
Kaerun was born in 466 IC. He took his first life moments later and found himself left in the care of an uncle who had no time for him, save to preach and to shape him into something he never wanted to be. Hate took root early and didn't let go of Kaerun until he'd lost everyone he'd ever cared about and burned everything else down around him. The world and Kaerun warred for nearly two centuries, but the world eventually won.

In some ways he considered that the first day of his second life. A clear line between the past and the present – though he would never lie to himself to say that the present held anything for him but memories of the past. Free of what bound him he wandered for a long time, avoiding as much of civilization as he could. Without the burden of duty (self-imposed or otherwise) he grew to disdain attachment. Even the name he wears now is not the one he was born to; he abandoned all he could of what once was. As time rolled on past him he shrugged off the tides of history and played no part in them.

Until he was compelled at last to return to the cities and their people nearly a century later. It took the death of a stranger on the road to impart upon him some last echoing call to rejoin the world, one more mission to take a dying man's final words back to those who cared for him and loved him. Kaerun did as he was asked, and found himself unable to leave. He remained with the family until the last of them died away, working in and around the city to stay close to them until their bloodline ceased to be. A patron from the shadows … and a curse upon their house, for bad luck haunted them until their final day.

Cast adrift again, Kaerun attempted to turn his hand to a number of trades. But with each failed venture he grew less interested in remaining above the surface of society. When at last he lost hope of becoming that which he was not, he fell into the work of mercenaries, haunting battlefield after battlefield for the coin he needed to drink away the world. When he could bear it no longer he would retreat for decades into the wilds before returning, but even those were stripped away as the industry of man claimed what they'd long desired despite the objections of those who would resist them.

It was a fight Kaerun had no intention of rejoining, so he did nothing to stop it. And so the trap closed around him and he found himself locked into a life of war for lack of alternatives. Gradually the tales of his centuries of drifting blurred and lost cohesion, replaced by new memories little different from the old. Who he was and who he'd been were constant; all else was smoke and ashes. Where other elves of long life clung to their history and the ways of their dying culture, Kaerun had no part of it nor care for the preservation of his memories, and so even his own kind turned away from him.

Ten years ago he found himself on the field of battle against the Company of the Wolf during the Wars in the North, a group of warriors long feared by those with any sense about them. He found himself engaged in a brutal fight against overwhelming odds, and despite his skill he was overcome. But rather than take his life, an officer of the Company extended a hand and an offer of employment.

Without anything holding him to his slaughtered companions and defeated employer, he accepted the deal and hasn't found any cause to leave yet.

Denouement

Character Motivation
Much the same as the title of this section, Kaerun seeks little in life beyond passing the last stretch of his life's denouement without causing too much trouble for others. He's lived long and seen much, made mistakes and counts few victories to his name, and the weight of it bears down as the twilight of his life approaches.

He fights because he has failed at all else; no art has ever left his pen nor come to life beneath the stroke of his brush. He cannot sing, cannot play an instrument, cannot tell tales, and offers no comfort to others. He lives on because the only thing that seems darker than a few more centuries of life is the abyss that waits beyond it.

Significant Relations
Kaerun has a lifetime of associates and acquaintances but none he would call upon in times of need. Some days it feels as if the only companions who've stuck by him over the centuries of his life are those who mean him harm or harbor festering wounds he's inflicted upon them. In wilder days he could not count his children on two hands and could never remember all the names of their mothers … but if any yet live he's long since lost track of them.

Opinions on Others: (this space intentionally left blank)

The Wolven Storm

@Hexaflexagon
Hah. What was that Steven Erikson quote? Something about Cook's stuff being "like reading Vietnam fiction on peyote." Damn. Now I need to get back and finish the Books of the South. Kinda trailed off after the first one and feel suddenly very guilty!

The Wolven Storm

Ack! At least one more hopeful, actually! So here's my hat in the ring – I'm new to this forum (I think this may be my first post?) but not new to forum RPs; hoping there won't be much culture shock. If I am approaching this wrong please let me know and I'll be happy to adjust or re-write. I erred on the side of vagueness in the history section figuring much of it could be filled in as we go along, but if it needs to be reworked I can do so.

Also, I love the Black Company aesthetic you have going on here! Haha.

****

Basic Information

It is as it is said to be: The past is prologue. All else is wind, and that which is borne on it. Fleeting and impossible to capture once it's fled our grasp. Did we not feel righteous, once? We who were scorned? We who felt the world was owed us, and that those who stood in our way did so only to meet our swords with their flesh? What seems so bright and clear in the heat of morning is but a puzzling ember in the twilight hours, a distant dying light at the edge of a day bleeding swiftly into night.

Name: Kaerun Eschala.
Race: Elf.
Age: 706.
Magic Potency: Yes.

Physical Description
In defiance of the common ideal of elven grace and beauty, Kaerun is a beast of sinew and corded muscle with all the grace of a rock tumbling down a mountain. His long brown hair is ragged and self-cut, threaded through with streaks of mottled grey that belie the strength of his bearing. At some point he might have been handsome but the years have stripped away the fineness of his features, burying whatever glimmer of allure he once possessed beneath a veil of scars and broken bones.

The only real element he has that still marks him as a member of his race – beyond the pointed ears – are the piercing eyes of his bloodline. A pair of emeralds set beyond a flat, broken nose and scarred cheeks … a strange paradox that tries unsuccessfully to redeem him in the eyes of women anywhere. He is tall but scarcely taller than the average human. Should he wish it he might even pass for one of them (though only in darkness, or with a hood drawn up).

Tattoos cover most of his upper body (from mid-neck down to his waist), a myriad of colors and intensity. Curved lines and strange sigils that bear no clear meaning, patterns of vines and leaves and serpents. Some are ancient and others have yet to begin fading; they flow out from the first that he bears upon his back. It is as if he means to hide it, or to bury it in the centuries of ink and hours that followed. As he usually eschews clothes that would cover his arms these tattoos may be his most notable feature.

The gods only know that the rest is forgettable.

He usually wears whatever clothes are at hand, and his armor is basically just a thickly padded shirt and occasionally a studded leather vest thrown atop it, all of these designed to keep his muscular arms free and his body mobile. Old boots and weathered leggings accompany his usual attire, along with a thick belt and a number of trinkets and fetishes he's accumulated over the years. Five small strips of leather decked with red and topaz beads always adorn him in some fashion, often attached to his belt or to a leather cord around his neck. He bears his blade upon his back.

Military Background

Years Spent in Service: Kaerun has served the Company for about ten years now.

Equipment: (What are they carrying on their person?)

• A long, thin sword of sturdy steel. Akin to a bastard sword in versatility, though of clear elven origin.
• A canteen older than the Vorstag Empire, a gift from an old employer.
• Various fetishes from all corners of the continent; feathers, metal leaves, beads, etc.
• Five leather strips adorned with blood-red and topaz-colored stones, usually affixed to his belt.
• Small book of elven wisdom literature, the ink nearly faded away.

Skills: (List from most potent to least)

• Sword Dancer: Little else defines Kaerun the way his skill with the sword does; when he does not bear his blade he moves as a man without purpose, plodding and clumsy. But with his blade in hand he becomes a man possessed. The style of swordsmanship he carries was taught to him in his early days and has been refined and altered by his centuries of life. It is doubtful that his original master would even recognize it … but none could deny that he is more deadly now than he was in his youth.
• Cheater: Kaerun is quite skilled at the sleight of hand required to cheat at cards and dice. The only saving grace in this is his openness about the skill, and how easy it is to bribe him into playing fair. A bottle of rum usually suffices.
• Amateur Herbalist: Most plants and their properties are familiar to Kaerun. He knows a number of great concoctions for remedying a hangover … or worse. Practice makes perfect.
• Hedge Mage: Though he has never been properly instructed, Kaerun has developed some skill in the use of magic to keep himself alive over the years. Alas, he will never be recognized as a master of the craft.

The Mind

Psych Profile
Easygoing, friendly, often uninterested but rarely cruel about it, and extremely reticent when it comes to his personal history. More likely to bow out of a fight than to join in, though no stranger to adversity or conflict. He is not shy on the battlefield and fights as bravely as most … but it feels as if that bravery is a mask, and what it covers is something far less zealous if no less powerful. Much has happened in his life and it has dulled him to many of the experiences he now weathers. Most of his days are eaten up by the rituals he's accumulated – including his dedication to the blade and his meditations on the scant arcane arts he possesses.

History
Kaerun was born in 466 IC. He took his first life moments later and found himself left in the care of an uncle who had no time for him, save to preach and to shape him into something he never wanted to be. Hate took root early and didn't let go of Kaerun until he'd lost everyone he'd ever cared about and burned everything else down around him. The world and Kaerun warred for nearly two centuries, but the world eventually won.

In some ways he considered that the first day of his second life. A clear line between the past and the present – though he would never lie to himself to say that the present held anything for him but memories of the past. Free of what bound him he wandered for a long time, avoiding as much of civilization as he could. Without the burden of duty (self-imposed or otherwise) he grew to disdain attachment. Even the name he wears now is not the one he was born to; he abandoned all he could of what once was. As time rolled on past him he shrugged off the tides of history and played no part in them.

Until he was compelled at last to return to the cities and their people nearly a century later. It took the death of a stranger on the road to impart upon him some last echoing call to rejoin the world, one more mission to take a dying man's final words back to those who cared for him and loved him. Kaerun did as he was asked, and found himself unable to leave. He remained with the family until the last of them died away, working in and around the city to stay close to them until their bloodline ceased to be. A patron from the shadows … and a curse upon their house, for bad luck haunted them until their final day.

Cast adrift again, Kaerun attempted to turn his hand to a number of trades. But with each failed venture he grew less interested in remaining above the surface of society. When at last he lost hope of becoming that which he was not, he fell into the work of mercenaries, haunting battlefield after battlefield for the coin he needed to drink away the world. When he could bear it no longer he would retreat for decades into the wilds before returning, but even those were stripped away as the industry of man claimed what they'd long desired despite the objections of those who would resist them.

It was a fight Kaerun had no intention of rejoining, so he did nothing to stop it. And so the trap closed around him and he found himself locked into a life of war for lack of alternatives. Gradually the tales of his centuries of drifting blurred and lost cohesion, replaced by new memories little different from the old. Who he was and who he'd been were constant; all else was smoke and ashes. Where other elves of long life clung to their history and the ways of their dying culture, Kaerun had no part of it nor care for the preservation of his memories, and so even his own kind turned away from him.

Ten years ago he found himself on the field of battle against the Company of the Wolf during the Wars in the North, a group of warriors long feared by those with any sense about them. He found himself engaged in a brutal fight against overwhelming odds, and despite his skill he was overcome. But rather than take his life, an officer of the Company extended a hand and an offer of employment.

Without anything holding him to his slaughtered companions and defeated employer, he accepted the deal and hasn't found any cause to leave yet.

Denouement

Character Motivation
Much the same as the title of this section, Kaerun seeks little in life beyond passing the last stretch of his life's denouement without causing too much trouble for others. He's lived long and seen much, made mistakes and counts few victories to his name, and the weight of it bears down as the twilight of his life approaches.

He fights because he has failed at all else; no art has ever left his pen nor come to life beneath the stroke of his brush. He cannot sing, cannot play an instrument, cannot tell tales, and offers no comfort to others. He lives on because the only thing that seems darker than a few more centuries of life is the abyss that waits beyond it.

Significant Relations
Kaerun has a lifetime of associates and acquaintances but none he would call upon in times of need. Some days it feels as if the only companions who've stuck by him over the centuries of his life are those who mean him harm or harbor festering wounds he's inflicted upon them. In wilder days he could not count his children on two hands and could never remember all the names of their mothers … but if any yet live he's long since lost track of them.

Opinions on Others: (this space intentionally left blank)