Avatar of Mcmolly

Status

User has no status, yet

Bio

User has no bio, yet

Most Recent Posts










A spike of laughter and chiding caught Dot’s attention, and she glanced over to see another quadrant of the arena had been occupied. In it stood a Valeforian boy, tall but not particularly imposing—neither by build nor demeanor. He was wiry like the blond kid, but markedly more nervous; he held his sword like he was afraid of it, like it might decide to turn on him.

His opponent entered soon after. He was announced as Carrot, or Cheros, or something of the like, and though he was shorter than the Valeforian, he was sturdier, and completely unfazed. Eager, even.

But Dot’s eyes went to the heckling crowd, and was disappointed to see that the lion’s share of jeering came from other lowborns. In a way, she understood; not all of them would move on to fight the nobles, and those that did would probably face some sort of disadvantage or another. Getting an easy opponent early just meant that they’d save more energy for the real challenge.

But still, where was the sympathy? The camaraderie? The Solidarity? For every ounce of enjoyment they got out of the poor kid’s distress, she could be sure the nobles got a pound. What did they gain now that wouldn't be lost by the end of the day?

She made a silent wish for the Valeforian’s victory as her own opponent stepped up.

Oh fuck’s sake…

The boy was an inch or two taller than she was, but couldn’t have been older. He had the awkward hunch of someone growing, and a face utterly wrecked by the forces of puberty and poor hygiene. Big eyes poked out beneath a greasy mop of hair, and his mouth was pinched shut. He held his wooden short sword with both hands and still it managed to shake like the blade was made of paper.

She didn’t hear his name, but when the call to begin came, he startled and held the sword up. He wouldn’t look at her directly. Had she been found out? Dot glanced up at the spectator box with a scowl. No, couldn’t be, not already. She wouldn’t be up here with blondie and sticks if she had. This was just...well, bad luck.

Dot shrugged the sword from her shoulder and held it level. She stood up straight, legs together, feet crossed in an altered third-position, ready. Waiting.

And waiting.

Someone shouted: “Do something already!

The boy would not move. Would not look at her. Would not stop shaking. Fuck, if this was all the opposition Grayle’s nobility faced, it was no wonder things were as bad as Verite said. What was there to be afraid of? What reason was there to change anything when no one could demand it with more than their words? It wasn’t just baffling, it was frustrating. It was maddening.

And it wasn’t his fault.

Dot sighed, dropped her stance, and really looked at her opponent. He didn’t seem happy to be here, but perhaps that was because he wasn’t prepared to be here. Just because he was afraid didn’t mean he didn’t deserve better, and beating a lesson into him wasn’t going to do him or anyone else any favors.

Shouldering her weapon again, Dot marched over to him. He startled, reeled the sword back, and his arms rattled like the last leaves on a tree, but he didn’t move. Eventually she came to stand right in front of him, and though she angled herself to look in his eyes, he still couldn’t meet her.

Gonna swing then?” she asked. To her surprise he did, but it was half-hearted and had the carry-through power of someone half their ages. She caught it by the wooden blade, held it tight and wouldn’t let him pull it away. That got him to look at her. His were sharp green and would have been intimidating if he used them right.

With a hard yank she wrenched the sword from his hands, and he flinched, expecting a strike. Instead she tossed it out of the arena. “Gotta look’em in the eyes,” she said softly. “Don’t mean nothin’ if you can’t look the bastards in their eyes. You’ll do it next time, yeah?

The boy nodded.

Go on then.

He scurried off the quadrant and back into the crowd. Once the match was called, she stepped down as well, though she kept her waster shouldered. Not exactly the start she wanted, but she hadn't come to Grayle to put the beatings on people who didn’t deserve it. A few of the other aspirants gave her odd looks, somewhere between curiosity and disappointment, but Dot focused on the other matches. Specifically on blondie and the Valeforian.



Dot watched the crowd split with a grimace. The lowborns were hurried up to the arena while the noble boys sat behind, socializing; of course, it wouldn’t do to have any of their prospective knighthoods actually challenged. For most of them, she guessed, the addition of a ‘Sir’ to their name was more a matter of elevating their station than anything, and for the rest, well, maybe they just wanted the prestige. A fancy title to go with their fancy swords and armor, to flaunt to their friends at parties, while the peasant soldiery went off to die in border skirmishes for them.

She felt herself getting mad, fast. Verite had warned her about this, but it still got to her—and he’d warned her about that, too. Now wasn’t the time to let anger throw off her balance. She’d come here to knock noble shitheads on their asses. Her eyes wandered up to the western wall, to the spectator’s box that she would have sworn glittered. She tried to make out the people there, but they were a blurry amalgam of coiffed hair and jewelry.

You up there, you bastard? You one of them? she thought bitterly. Just you fucking wait.

Dot spit wallward and made her way to the stage when her alias was called, stopping by the quartermaster’s table. The selection was unsurprisingly slim; most of the nobles had likely brought their own blunted weapons, and who gave a shit what the rest used? She picked up a wooden straight sword, shocked by how poorly it was balanced, even for a waster. Would these even hold up to a metal weapon without snapping in half?

You got anything bigger?” she asked. The knight attending looked her up and down, cocked a brow, and shrugged.

She settled for a wooden longsword, which would have been appropriately-sized for most of the participants, but for her it was practically head-height. Smaller than what she was used to, but, oh well. It was on the lighter side, but she could feel it was denser than the smaller options, and might take a couple harder hits before it snapped. Would they count it a loss if she broke her weapon on someone’s back? Depending on who her opponent was, it might have been worth finding out.

Resting it against her shoulder, she marched up onto the stage, waiting. Who was she fighting, anyway? With how the group had split, it seemed likely she’d be squaring off with some lowborn before she got a shot at the real prizes. That didn’t sit right with her. Some of these kids had no place fighting anyone, but others truly deserved knighthood; they’d trained for it, fought for it, probably sacrificed all they had just to get this far. It wouldn’t be fair at all for someone like her to squash that hope, when at the end of the day Grayle was going to take her anyway.

Fuckers.

Maybe she was worrying for nothing, though. She’d dueled plenty of people back in the Tower, and Dot was proudly certain there was no one in Grandor who was Verite’s match, legends be damned—but all the same, this was a test. Could be that the first dirt-faced boy with a sword put her on ground in half a second. Could be she’d waited all these years just to embarrass herself in front of the people she despised.

Her grip on the waster tightened. She glanced over at the arena beside her, at some blond kid getting ready for his own fight. They were about the same height, but he was stick-thin and seemed jumpy as anything; the nobles likely smelled blood in the water just looking at him. Their ranks were rife with haughty whispers and infuriating grins.

She nodded to the boy, not that she could offer him much support. But if he got through, it’d be exactly what this country deserved.



It’s short for Donathon.

Then why don’t you go by ‘Don’?

Yeah it’s foreign, innit? In Valefor it means, uh, ‘Daemon Puncher’. You know, based on the legend of the Daemon Puncher.

You’re from Valefor?

Do I look like I’m from Valefor?

You look like a girl.

Sayin’ they don’t have girls in Valefor?

The knight sighed like he hoped it would be the last time he drew breath, and then scratched ‘Donathon Bigyarn’ into his ledger. “Go. In.” he said, tired eyes angry and pointedly staring away from her. “Fuck off.

Yeah.

Dot waited until the registration desk was behind her to pull back her hood. She’d dirtied her hair enough to push it from gray to near-black, and while she’d worried at first that it being so long might be an issue, the more she looked around, the more noble boys she saw with locks well down their own backs. It baffled her that the knight had almost pegged her for a girl—half these bastards were prettier than she was.

The whole city was like that, she’d noticed. Pretty as could be, gleaming with ivory towers and artful bridges as far as the eye could see. Below, the rushing river and distant falls leant a pleasant hum to air, and the weather here was fairer than any she could remember traveling Alexandria.

So it was fitting then that on her way to the arena she had crossed through the less aesthetically pleasing portions, and seen a glimpse of the grimy, dilapidated slums propping up that shining façade. A perfect reflection of the noble boys around her; a pretty face and a waterfall of confidence to hide their true natures. A mask of humanity.

She hoped she’d get to beat a few cracks into it, before the day was done.

As she made her way towards the arena, to join the ranks of other aspirants, her eyes wandered to them. For the moment she was anonymous, and though she didn’t expect that to last past the preliminaries, that was as far as she needed it to go. Had she walked in here waving her summons, and announced herself as the Heir of Light, she wasn’t certain they’d have even let her compete. And if they had, whoever they paired her off with would either have been too afraid to put up a real fight, or worse, they might have thrown some hapless lowborn at her, in the hopes she’d make a show of it for the audience.

Well, fuck that. If she was going to subject herself to these people, then she was going to do it on her own terms. They could have Dot Mummer when she was done. For now, they got Donathon Bigyarn, who was not from Valefor.


Location: Uhladein, Eastern Marches


Rain was relieved to hear that the Uglydein ghoul wouldn’t be tailing them. She’d only just met cool people, and the last thing she wanted was to drag some grandpa around while they all drank beer and punched each other. They’d get in trouble for punching pyromancers—the folks back home had made sure she knew that. Other hunters? Fair game. Normal people? Maybe don’t, it’s boring anyway. But pyromancers? Off-limits, even papa had said so.

Thinking about him made her stomach feel funny. Made her want to punch Galiel anyway just to do it.

Stupid. Cut it out. You’re mad at him.

Lexann—still not a real word but whatever, they could come up with definition later—asked if Rain’s name was a poem. Ah, the pink giant was a little slow, it seemed. Well, that made sense; you couldn’t have so much muscle and have brains, too.

No, it’s water,” Rain said, correcting her.

No harm done; she didn’t like the woman any less for being a bit dumb. In fact, she preferred dumb people. Dumb people were fun. Nerds on the other hand, like Galiel and the other pyromancers, made her want to bite things.

Besides, Lex brought up a good point then: why didn’t the pyromancers just blast the void’s ass and be done with it? The obvious answer was that they were lame little wusses with weak gums who were afraid of death, unlike Rain, who had an iron jaw and wasn’t afraid of anything, even a little bit. The better answer was that if they did do that, then none of the hunters would get to have any fun.

Because this is cooler,” she offered. “Like, way cooler.
Location:The City of Thorinn, Aetheria


It broke Seele’s heart to see Artemis in such a state. The poor girl had only just joined them, and already things had exploded—quite literally. She hoped this wouldn’t ruin things for her, but she couldn’t blame her if it did. Right now though, that was a distant concern.

No, honey, no no,” she said softly, keeping her smile firm in the face of the girl’s hollow dismay. “You didn’t do anything wrong. The only mistake you can make now is blaming yourself, okay? It’s all handled. Just go back in and try to relax. I’ll be right behind you, I just want to make sure Graves is alright, first.

It was impossible to ignore the way she had looked at him. Seele knew what fear looked like, and she knew how different it was to be afraid of someone rather than something. She stroked Artemis’s shoulder gently.

Hey, it’s okay. I promise. Look at me. No one is going to hurt you, no one. We won’t let it happen.

With that she left the archer, stopping momentarily on her way to Graves to speak with the siblings. To her relief they seemed fine, though she knew from the incident with Kazuki that, with things like this sometimes it was the bond that suffered more than the body. Sif and Siegfried had been with them from the start, they were part of the family, and she paled at the thought that she might lose them this way.

I’m so sorry,” she said, bowing low like her mother had told her was right to do when you were truly apologetic. “I hope neither of you were hurt. If it weren’t for you, I don’t know what would have…happened, back there. Thank you for your help.

And, Siegfried…you’re right. You are—about my plan. It’s stupid, and hasty, and chances are it’s going to get me killed, but…it doesn’t matter. This whole city’s collapsing on itself, maybe the whole world is, too. Someone has to do something. Even if it’s not the world, even if it’s just a few missing people.

I’m not calling you a coward. You were in that dungeon, you were there when Aag…well, you’re one of the bravest people I know. I meant what I said; you don’t have to be part of it. Neither of you do. I’m sorry that I got you into this. I hope we can still be friends,” she managed a small smile. “I like you both very much.

Once again she left, finally coming to the side of Lendie’s healer, and kneeling down next to Graves.

Andrecille, right?” she asked. It seemed the woman had worked her magic on him already. “Thank you so much for helping. I’m sorry for the trouble.

Her attention turned down to Graves, then. A pang of frustration flashed through her, along with the realization that she was upset with him. But that was silly, and she knew that. She was just embarrassed about being in the middle of a scene, and a little stressed from having to talk her way out of jail. He was hurt, and clearly much deeper than Andrecille’s magic could reach.

So, with a little muster she kept her smile alive for him. “Graves, sweetie, are you alright? Can you stand, do you need help?


_______________________________________________


Physical Description
Despite her best efforts, Dot does not strike an imposing figure. She’s short, and still carries a youthful countenance even when she’s glowering. When she must begrudgingly don the long dresses and frilled skirts of nobility, her pale-gray hair and glassy eyes lend her a doll-like appearance. Normally, she can be found wearing simple clothes, plain and well-fitting from shirt to boots, save for the addition of waist or shoulder cloaks.

She moves with incredible grace, calm and measured even when her emotions are high. While not exactly stealthy, her height and the ghostly ease with which she navigates can take her in and out of a room before she’s so much as noticed.

As a result of all this, seeing her heft such a mighty weapon might come as a surprise. Part of her strength undoubtedly comes from her aura, but the majority of it is borne from years of rigorous training. Dot’s stature belies a form of hardened muscle, maintained through determination and routine conditioning, as well as the agile flexibility required of a dancer.

Character Conceptualization











Other Information
Questions of Dot's parentage travel briefly up the chain of command before being stonewalled. Though her roots in the Grayle bloodline are undeniable, it would seem someone is protecting the identity of her father—or perhaps, protecting themselves.

Lilann had not expected to stay dry, or alive even, if she let herself be as cynical as she ought to have been. However, by the time Esvelee pulled them off the road they were both, and she was not about to complain. Telling stories with her nerves on the fray had been an exercise for her composure, and she was mildly proud for keeping herself together. Entertaining people with a black eye or a bruised lip was one thing, but no mask could hide a quavering voice or a scattered mind. Thankfully she’d avoided both.

Look at you, acting like a professional.

As far as audiences went, her companions fell on the acceptable side of ‘didn’t try to kill me,’ so she couldn’t complain. Kyreth especially had been quite receptive, and while she’d delighted in his fascination, it also gnawed at her to view him as a listener. So often she held a silent disdain for the crowds she tended, nearly to equal the subjects of her stories. And as she walked, lyre strumming, spinning her tales, she’d met his eyes and seen the wonder in them, and for a single, involuntary moment she hated him.

In the next moment she felt incredibly guilty. Didn’t trip her up though—professionalism and all that—but she was more careful. The feeling had settled by the time they’d come to a stop, which lasted all of a few minutes before Kyreth offered her some of his rations.

Gods, if she ate it now she might be sick. She didn’t deserve this, but then, it seemed that wasn’t really her call.

Kyreth—” she said, as he turned back for the cart. She doffed her mask, offered him a smile that probably didn’t seem as grateful as she meant it to. “Thank you.

Alone, she tested her stomach on the hardtack. When it stayed down, she let herself nibble on the rest, but despite having eaten nothing all day, hunger had fallen to the back of her mind. What came to the front, regrettably, was Ceolfric. Kyreth had Cerric busy, and with any luck, Esvelee would be distracted as well. It was as good a time as any.

She slung her mask to her belt. As much as she would have preferred an extra layer between her and the hedgeman, she gained nothing hiding from him on this matter. So, bucking up, she made her way over to him.

Hey, sst!” she hissed, keeping her voice low. “We need to talk about your message. Your friend and I are recently acquainted.

Looking around, there wasn’t exactly a great place to talk inconspicuously. Yes, it was darkening, and the others were busy, but they were in a clearing and if the two of them just wondered off to the shadowed fringes, they might draw Esvelee’s attention. Or worse, Cerric’s. She had half a mind to ask him to use his magic, see if they could simply think at each other, but perhaps it was unwise to waste the aether. As much as she disliked the man, he was doubtlessly the best fighter among them—perhaps discounting their chaperone—and if things turned poorly in the night, they’d all be better off with him at full capacity.
© 2007-2025
BBCode Cheatsheet