Mammon

Dēmonhantā no Kurabu

Name: Reiki Tsukihisa

Age: Fourteen

Class: Freshman

Appearance:

Image

Personality: Reiki tends to be antagonistic and violent. He enjoys eavesdropping, fighting, and keeping to himself. While generally a solitary person, he will tolerate the company of a few people at once. In tense situations, Reiki is prone to being emotional and explosive. His grades are poor because he spends more time brooding than studying.

Expertise: Combat. Spirit detection.

Manifestation:

BAS

Forged in Gold

Totally ballin'. I'm working on my post now.

Forged in Gold

Grey left his mother's room again, empty plates and cups stacked in one hand. She had eaten quickly. He wondered with a certain bitterness if the servants which cared for Boralle had been feeding her well enough. It took a great amount of patience to adequately care for someone bedridden. The Stolen made a mental note personally oversee his mother's mealtimes. He simply could not risk anything happening to her; she was too important--too integral--in the upcoming events to let her fall ill, or worse.

He opened the door and immediately ran into his cousin, Ruarc, who had been lingering outside the door to Boralle's chambers. Silverware and empty goblets hit the ground in a loud metallic clatter, and one of the plates shattered as it hit the floor's masonry. Grey the Stolen, who was a small and mousy man, fell back squarely on his buttocks.

Grey scrambled to pick up the broken shards of porcelain and other dishes. “Oh, Ruarc, I am so sorry. I didn’t see you there…” The Stolen swayed to his feet. How much of that did he hear? Surely nothing, surely nothing of her true condition… Surely nothing her true intentions… He felt his hands tighten on the shattered dinnerware enough to turn his knuckles white and to draw blood.

“H-how long have you been waiting on me?”

Forged in Gold

A cacophony of bird calls echoed around the torchlit room--the piercing caw of a murder of raven, the screech of an eagle, the cooing of dozens of pigeons. He had even been busy breeding doves to release for the wedding. The male Salt twin was engrossed in his work.

He swept the bird droppings from the floor into pan and threw it out the window, his mouth and nose veiled by a handkerchief. It was not work usually done by a man of his status--usually reserved for one of squires or maids--but he enjoyed his solitude far more than he disliked sweeping.

While leaning out the window Judam Salt emitted a high-pitched whistle. Moments later, his personal falcon--Mulder--landed on his outstretched glove, the bells on his ankles jingling. The Salt twin pulled a morsel of rabbit from a bag on his belt and felt it to Mulder, stroking him along his feathered neck with the back of one finger. "You obeyed quickly, Mulder. You're learning so fast," he praised, clutching the small strips of leather that hung from the falcon’s legs.

Judam took his falcon into one of the empty mews. It was a large room which served not only as housing for his raptor, but also as a storage space for his falconry equipment. Mulder flew from his hand and onto a perch within the room and Judam closed the door to safety chamber.

Judam heard the sing-song voice of his sister calling him, announcing her arrival to the aviary. It echoed up the stone stairway, and it was not long before Pyrra followed. She leaned in the door, a smirk on her face and a note clutched in her hand.

“What is it, songbird?” He returned her smile. It was always nice to see one of the few people in the kingdom he actually enjoyed talking to, even if he assumed it was for business. “Do you have a letter to send?”

Forged in Gold

I'll put up a post in the morning. My still face hurts. I was worried you had dropped it, haha. I hope you feel better soon.

Forged in Gold

I added Pyrra's twin, Judam Salt.

Forged in Gold

I organized the characters for this. Maybe, when you find time, could you write up some minor descriptions for each of the four kingdoms? I'll start working on major cities for each of them, as well as religious beliefs.

Forged in Gold

Grey the Stolen listened in horror as Lorgan Ogreson crooned about the Southern tragedy and the rape of his mother. He could feel the color drain from his face in cold anger, and his blood bubbled with hatred. It was not the first time he had heard this tune; it was a popular song among soldiers of the Hinterlands--sung largely in the feasting longhouses during nights of celebration--but he had always despised it. He found nothing celebratory about the crippling of a noble and just king, nor the circumstances which led his mother to become an invalid. On the contrary, Grey thought the lyrics to show a disturbing lack of empathy toward the suffering of the South, and he loathed the Hinterland bodyguard for such a display of tactlessness and cruelty.

With hands that shook from restrained rage, he carefully placed servings of his mother's favorite dishes onto a spare plate. He knew which foods she loved most: honeyed ham, pickled peaches with spiced cream, shredded vegetable salad with vinaigrette, fried sweetbread, and scalloped potatoes--careful so that the items did not touch.

Grey tried not to leer at Ogreson and his traitorous wench. There was no need for him to punish them outright; Lorgan had proven himself to the Southern nobles to be as crude, stupid, and belligerent as it was rumored all northmen were. He had confirmed their distrust and resentment of him, and it would likely transfer to all visitors from the Hinterlands--especially those whom the hulking lout advised.

The Stolen picked up his own platter of food in one hand and his mother's in the other. He leaned over to Ruarc Hinn, as to speak unheard by eavesdroppers. "Cousin, can you believe Brogan finds the advice of such a barbaric man so invaluable as to bring him here?" Grey's lips were drawn thin, and his expression unreadable yet gaunt. "I can't endure him. I'm going to eat with Mother."

The lost son of the Kingbreaker made a quiet exit, slipping through the door left open by Lorgan. He made his way up the tower to visit Boralle, knocking before entering. There was no reply. "I have brought you food from the feast, Mother. Your favorites." He sat the plate down on the bedside table beside the now empty goblet of wine. Grey the Stolen poured her a fresh glass. "It is so much nicer up here with you... The hall is full of boisterous fools. Not like us..." He smiled and touched his mother's forearm. For the first time today, she looked at him. "We'll be rid of them soon. I promise."

Forged in Gold

Southern cuisine was very different from the food of the North. All of the meat was heavily spiced, and many of the dishes were coated in a sweet glaze. The wine here was sweet too, not dry and tart like the wines of the North. There were exotic fruits and vegetables Brom Arten had never before seen, and he wished his stomach larger so he could taste them all. Yet the food was not what interested him the most: instead, he was consumed by thoughts of the other Southern delicacy, Seralle.

Brom leaned forward on the table to get a close look at his brother's bride-to-be. He could barely make out what she said over the sounds of drunken celebration and dining. The drinking songs of the South had yet to fade, but he was far more interested in the sad melody of Seralle's tales. She was beautiful, and he imagined that she had been a lovely nine year old girl as well. Illixion the Mad sounded like a cruel old man for scaring her so much, especially a princess so young. Brom could feel a strange urgency rising in his gut--a growing need to comfort and protect Princess Seralle.

Her genuine conversation with Brogan was an act which had only served to intensify his budding infatuation with the Southern princess. She seemed far more real than any of the other members of the court, far more sincere, even from her position of influence. Brom felt, though he had not met her until today, that he was intimately familiar with her. Seralle sounded so honest, so sad. Like a moth drawn to a flame, he had to be closer to her. The second son of the Kingbreaker stood from his seat and opened his mouth to speak, but Brogan's deep voice came first.

"You don't fear death," the older prince began, placing a warm and calloused hand over Seralle's, "you said so yourself. You fear a life unlived... So live." Brom's gaze flicked from their hands to her face, jealousy burning in his chest.

'She thinks he's handsome, strong, and witty...' he internally brooded, 'She thinks he's better than other northmen.' If the old laws were still intact, Brom really might have fought his brother for her hand. As it was, he could only resign himself. Only his brother's death would let them marry, and as much as he wanted her, he could not wish for such a terrible thing.

The younger prince sighed and returned to his seat, pushing his food around with one of his prongs. The fare which had only moments ago been so appealing now seemed like gruel. His appetite and his good mood had evaporated. Brom was roused from his self-pity by loud 'thud' of the banquet hall door slamming open. The eldest member of the North's army and the princes' personal guard sauntered in, a giggling Southern darling slung over one shoulder and a pitcher of wine in his other hand. The younger prince covered his face with his palm. "This can't end well," he muttered.

Forged in Gold

The eleventh post is up. I'm going to bed for now.