Besca was quiet for a few moments, which was probably not what Quinn wanted in response to a question like that. In her defense, it was a tough question, and more complex than someone in such a state could likely realize. But, that was alright; it took her a bit but she did eventually figure out her answer.
“It’d be easier,” she said. Dahlia looked at her like she’d just burst into flames, but she motioned her down. “And a heck of a lot simpler, but neither of those are the same as ‘better’. Cause you know what? It would have been easier for you to have just refused to be a pilot. It would have been easier to have just killed Roaki. God, it’d been easier for me to have given up after Hovvi—just throw my hands up and walk away from RISC, and Deelie, and you. My life would be simpler,” she came around and crouched down in front of Quinn, eye to eye. “But not at all better.
“The fact is, Quinn, you cause problems. You don’t think the way most of Illun does; you certainly don’t think the way I do about a lot of things, especially piloting. I still think that’s a good thing. I still think every time you step into that cockpit I end up learning a lesson about how to be better. You make me better.”
“Me too,” Dahlia quietly agreed, taking Besca’s place behind Quinn, hands squeezing her shoulders.
“So, no, hun. No, my life wouldn’t be better. I said I wouldn’t rather you be any other way. I meant it.”
Besca knew the signs by now. A part of her was proud of that; years spent as just about the only human connection pilots had after they took this job had prepared her, but Quinn was unique and she’d still managed to learn a lot of her tells quicker than she thought she might. Of course, that pride was soured somewhat by the fact that she’d learned them as a result of the girl being absolutely miserable for most of her life on the Aerie.
Part of her felt guilty. She knew it was her own attitude that was doing this to Quinn, and regardless of what had led them here, she was still just a kid. That said, the absolute maelstrom of shit raging in her head, throwing panic around at the idea of what was waiting for her as soon as she left this room, made it hard to muster herself.
“I don’t hate you,” she said softly, finally picking her head back up. “And I’m not mad, I promise. You learned this from the duel, right? Doing the right thing isn’t always easy? We both did. And I gotta support you when you do it. But, uh, y’know, I’m not a pilot. I’m not so resilient to it all, sometimes it takes the wind outta me.”
She got up, but rubbed a hand on Quinn’s shoulder. Keep contact, don’t leave her alone. Let her work herself through it. Show her there’s an end to what she’s feeling.
“I know it sounds like I’m upset but I promise I’m not. Not with you, anyway. I’m working on it, I know it’s taking a bit, but try to have a little faith in me in the meantime. I wouldn’t rather you be any other way.”
There was waiting silence again, as if the anchors hoped beyond hope that Quinn might suddenly burst out laughing and claim she was joking, that of course she’d had everything under control on her own and there was no way some Euseran vulture could be owed any of the credit. They were on the brink of losing their union with Casoban forever, and surely, surely right now, Quinn would know better than to hand them a reason to trust Eusero over Runa.
Of course, they waited in vain as Quinn’s silence extended far past awkward, and the producers evidently had nothing ready to parry her comments with.
‘Oh god,’ Besca thought. Was it possible to get double-fired? She had a feeling she’d find out soon.
Dashing over, she came up behind Quinn and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Thank you, she said into the camera, best PR face on. “Miss Loughvein is needed for secondary debriefing. Any further comments will come from RISC directly in the next few hours and days.”
“Thank you for—” the anchor started, only for the screen to cut off. Across the room, Dahlia got the signal and started to bring her own statements to a close.
Besca slouched, forehead touched to the top of Quinn’s head, and sighed. “Okay…” she mumbled, eye squeezed shut. “I feel like you know why that probably wasn’t the best thing to say, so, lets just…take a moment. Lets just take a moment.”
Dahlia eventually came over, puzzled look on her face. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“We’re taking a moment,” Besca said, still leaned against Quinn’s head. “Considering our actions, and reminding ourselves how much we love each other.” Her hands came up, weaving fingers gently into Quinn’s hair and taking hold before softly shaking her head. “So much. So much more than our well-intentioned mistakes.”
“I don’t get it,” she said, coming around to Quinn. “What’d you say?”
“She gave rightful credit to Axan Dane for saving her life and helping her close the singularity,” Besca answered for her, tone flat and just a little bit pained. “Because it’s what happened and it was the right thing to do, and I don’t want you to think I would ever be disappointed in you for doing the right thing.”
Dahlia went wide-eyed. “O-oh. Oh. You thanked Eusero?”
The anchors nodded along with her, never interjecting even in the extended silences. That was by design, of course; soundbites of pilots discussing political matters were premium currency in the news world, not just to the station who snagged them, but anyone with the means and measure to use them. Besca could recall a forty-five second clip of one of Westwel’s pilots mentioning offhandedly how he’d gotten pulled over in Eusero once on vacation making the rounds in every country on Illun for four weeks. Tourist regulations shifted almost overnight, and there were calls to bar all travel from Westwel to Eusero and all of its territories.
Quinn defending Dahlia was a no-brainer, would have been right inline with the Board’s script. Problem was, every Casobani and Euseran article would say she was insinuating a conspiracy on their part. 'Quinnlash Loughvein and the RISC think you’re a liar!' More fuel for the fire.
Only when it seemed like Quinn was well and truly finished answering did the anchor jump back in, still nodding along with her. “I think that’s exactly right. Dahlia St. Senn isn’t just a Runan hero, she’s an international hero. And you are, too, of course. In fact, you’ve had a record for helping out across the globe since your first rodeo, so I’d like to hope that your words carry a little more weight there.
“Speaking of, we’re just floored by the footage of you today. Six Modir faced down all on your own. You must be feeling like quite the warrior right about now. Did you feel prepared for that? Do you think RISC’s training helped you be ready for such tough odds, even on short notice like that?”
Lilann tensed when Ceolfric announced himself, ready to…well, do whatever she might be able to with just a rock. For as long as she lived she’d regret throwing her sword at the wretched creature. Between being caught out by the necromancer’s wolves, and now this, she was sorely lacking any meaningful measure of defense. More importantly, it made her look unprofessional.
When Eila hissed to her she nearly jumped despite herself. Soft-footed for a bookworm, or maybe Lilann was just too focused-in.
“Yes,” she answered just as quietly. “But unless you’d like me to stand in front of her and shield her knees from harm, I believe I best serve that priority by preempting trouble. Just…not as forwardly as our acquaintance.”
Eila was right, it was like Ceolfric wanted to fight. She suspected he carried that likeness with him into most aspects of his life. And while that had been frustrating at more or less every juncture so far, right now she was more than happy to let him just be his merry self. Ermes joined him as well, pulling himself from the shadows like a black cat in the night. The two of them interrogated what appeared to be a drunken man and his exhausted handler, or at least a convincing enough cover of them.
There wouldn’t be any guesswork though. Ceolfric lowered his sword, but when he demanded answers from the more vertical of the two, Lilann knew he’d answer as readily as if he’d had the blade to his throat.
“Well, I’m sure everyone watching shares those sentiments. Runa has always adhered stringently to the Accord, even when others haven’t.” The anchor smiled, but there was something in his tone that, having watched her fair share of news channels, Quinn might have picked up on quite quickly. A political angle that made the trajectory of the conversation clear. “There are already reports coming in from certain Casobani and Euseran sources claiming that your fellow pilot, miss St. Senn, may be somewhat to blame for the loss of Chateau.
“Of course, I and I’m sure every level-headed person watching can agree that’s ridiculous. Dragon’s efforts up until we lost video feed were as astounding as ever, and frankly, we don’t believe the ESC has any place to cast aspersions on what happened today. As someone who works closely and often with miss St. Senn, do you believe there’s any justification to the claims that she abided Chateau’s loss, intentionally or otherwise?”
Even if she’d have been able to see it coming, the topic swerved into political unrest so quickly, how could she possibly have avoided it? She hadn’t been back an hour, and already there were people trying to tear down what RISC had done.
Besca stood aside, frowning. For all the work the pilots did in defending Illun, they were weapons foremostly on the international stage. Hammers with which to bludgeon home certain stances, and savagely beat away others. There was no winning against something like this. If she answered, she’d be playing the game the same way everyone else did—right now she would be defending Dahlia, and Runa, but what about next time? What about a month from now? A year? But the fuel that refusing to answer would throw onto a fire like this would be devastating.
Quinn had to say something, and it wasn’t going to stop there.
Besca wouldn’t have minded spending the rest of the day like that, ignoring the Aerie, and Casoban, and Eusero. She had a million reasons to despise her job, but it was hard to forget—now especially—that without it, she wouldn’t have…this. These girls. She’d be relegated to analytics, or likely fired, and Dahlia and Quinn would have been at the mercy of whoever the Board thought would be able to twist them the best.
When she was eventually replaced, she hoped they’d remember to hold on to each other like this. Like she wouldn’t be able to.
“Right,” she said, clearing her throat. “Right, yeah, uh—yeah. Just a statement for now, interviews’ll come over the next few days. RNN just wants a word from you both, one on each of their sister stations, so Deelie, you’ll sit over there and Quinn you’ll be right here. I’ll boot up the video call and you’ll both just…well, just tell’em everything’s good. You handled the singularities and you’re glad you got to it before anyone got hurt. PR would like for you to emphasize how Runa stands by its allies no matter the political climate, since they’ll be airing it in Casoban most likely too. Actually they had a script for you but I, uh, tripped and lost it in the trashcan. So you both say whatever you feel like saying, and when you’re done, you just thank them for their time and you close the call, alright?”
With that, Dahlia went across the room to a seat and a screen, covering herself in a jacket first and doing her best to appear as composed as the public was used to seeing her. On Quinn’s end, the screen came on as Besca stepped away.
On the other side, a man in a suit with slicked-back hair sat at a wide desk with an equally-well-dressed woman beside him. Scrolling across a bar on the bottom of the screen was text describing the events—the multiple singularities, the zero civilian casualties.
“Oh!” the man said, surprise clear on his face, albeit briefly. “We’re—okay this is RNN: Now back with you, and we’re joined live by RISC pilot Loughvein, and I’m told on our primary channel, RNN, they’ve just been joined by pilot St. Senn.
“Miss Loughvein! We’re all so glad to see you in one piece, thank you so much for taking the time to speak with us. As the footage rolls in, we’re beginning to see just how much bigger this attack was than anticipated. This isn’t your first encounter with these troublingly fast emergences, we’d just like to hear your thoughts on the matter.”
Full Name – Moriya Mio Age - 20 Gender - Female Occupation – Blacksmith’s Apprentice
-
P E R S O N A L I T Y
Tempered “That’s the problem, you know. You think you’re the fire, but you’re the metal.”
If it weren’t for her size, you might never know Mio was there. She speaks softly and maintains a serene demeanor, and it is by every measure an effort. She has encased herself in an armor of patience, and has not raised her voice in anger since she was still little. Her mind is filled with a myriad of calming mantras, meditative techniques, and sermons on tranquility. Quenched steel might lose its heat, but cold metal can still cut—she can’t afford to be complacent.
Imperfect Alloy “You don’t smile right, girl. If a wolf shows you its teeth, it’s not happy—it’s gonna bite you.”
The urges and impulses that plagued her as a child never went away. She knew better than to believe they could be buried, and though she tried her best to quell them, they’re still there, baked into her every moment whether she realizes it or not. Though often well-composed, one can still see that the fire in the forge doesn’t leave her when she walks away. It’s still there in her eyes, in her gait, in the bridled way she handles the curtness of others. Against her wishes, the world seems bent on trying to pry violence out of her, but even if it’s a fight she can never win, she’s determined to do her best not to lose.
Sweated Steel “Sometimes I think you wake up to remind the sun it’s got a job to do.”
Mio considers herself exceptionally hard-working, not out of arrogance but necessity. Each morning she’s up before dawn, fed and exercised and headed to the forge while the moon’s still watching. When an order comes in she gets to work immediately, heading a project herself, or assisting either Tetsu or Tsubasa as needed. In downtime she cleans, she organizes, she runs errands entirely unrelated to the forge. Anything to keep busy. Anything to keep the mind off itself. Idle hands tempt maligned action.
S K I L L S E T
Blacksmith's Apprentice Mio knows her way around a forge. Be it structural components, tools, or, sometimes, little knick-knacks just for fun, Tetsu’s shop can do it all. She’s nowhere near as skilled as her master, and as a craftsman she’s fairly sure Tsubasa is the more skillful apprentice, but Mio is no novice anymore, and she excels at repairs in particular.
Body of Work A decade of hard work and diligent exercise has made Mio almost as strong as the metals she works with. If there’s heavy lifting to be done, whether it’s around the shop or out on the town, she’s your girl. As well, her years by the forge have granted her a slight resilience to heat, and if you get too close to her you might swear she took some of its warmth with her.
Independent The soft-ostracization Mio faces from both the village and her own family forced her to learn self-reliance at a young age. As a result, she’s incredibly responsible, able to take care of herself, cook, clean, and manage both a home and the forge without much trouble. It’s done nothing for her nonexistent social skills, but it does make her a dependable handywoman.
Physical Description
Mio is imposing, and it stresses her out. She’s taller than most people in the village, even those older than she is, and practically a decade of working with heavy metals has given her a physique of hard muscle and the stamina of a field ox. Wherever she goes, Mio casts a long and intimidating shadow that most people would rather scurry out of than look up at.
If they did though, they wouldn’t find much comfort. Mio isn’t an angry looking person, but being around her, you’re likely to be struck by a disconcerting anxiety. She tries to keep on a warm smile, and on another face, her eyes might be considered safe and comforting. On her though, people swear they see something in them. They hold firelight too long and too easy, and their brightness makes it hard to tell whether she’s happy, or about to do something…bad.
Her hair is a soft sunset color, and goes down to her back. She dresses lightly for the hours spent around roaring fires and scalding metals. There are a fair few burn scars up and down her arms, and across her sides, from the early mistakes all apprentices make, but she makes no effort to hide them.
Character Conceptualization
When Mio was six years old, she smashed a frog’s leg with a rock. She remembers it vividly, and the gut-wrenching horror that rooted in her as it hopped oblongly away even more so. She remembers running to her parents, screaming and crying that the trees were going to eat her for being evil. Of course, when they found out what she’d done, they did their best to comfort her; then, when she’d finally calmed down, they scolded her gently, and brought her out to pray forgiveness for what she’d done. Kneeling there with her head pressed to the dirt, Mio had never felt so scared. Ultimately, it seemed the kami decided to spare her the agony of eternal damnation, or exile, and she went back to being a normal child.
When she was ten it happened again. Sitting on a bench behind her family’s home, a small bird perched itself on her hand. It wasn’t the first time; Mio had a penchant for stillness that most wildlife found amicable, and she often found herself subject to the company of birds, and squirrels, and wild cats. It was pleasant, usually, and there was warmth in being trusted by something so small, so soft. So fragile.
It didn’t move when she slowly closed her hand around it, but when she squeezed it fought back. It shrieked, it thrashed, it pecked at her hand with its sharp little beak and drew blood, but Mio didn’t let go. She just squeezed, until her mom found her and wrenched the poor thing out of her grasp.
This time there was no comforting. Her parents demanded answers that she didn’t have; she knew it was wrong, she felt terrible, and she didn’t know why she did it. They looked at her like a stranger, they treated her like a yokai in the shape of their daughter.
Animals didn’t come to her anymore after that. She felt an eerie discomfort whenever she drew too close to the forest, and soon that anxiousness began to follow her everywhere. The villagers seemed to sense it; there was a wariness about them when she was in their presence, even when she was still little. People stopped talking to her, stopped visiting her house. They averted their eyes like they could see something in her own that upset them. Before long, her company was scarce. Just about the only person who would actually speak to her was the local blacksmith, Tetsu, and he was more disliked than she was.
Her parents didn’t care that she spent so much time around a delinquent; it got her out of the house, away from them. Whether the man was taking pity on her, or just wanted an extra pair of hands to dump his work into, at ten Mio began to work as Tetsu’s apprentice.
The work helped. Smithing gave her a focus, a channel for the feelings she had but didn’t understand. She turned her impulses to the forge, and the crucible, and gave what remained to the flames. She started to smile again, even if she didn’t often have anyone to share it with.
As time went on, Mio grew taller than her mother, then her father, and eventually you’d have been hard-pressed to find an adult in Heisana who could stand at-eyes with her. Combined with her muscled build and the unnerving air she’s been unable to shake even into young adulthood, her regard in the village did not improve, despite her best efforts. In some ways she began to adopt Tetsu’s ill reputation, though she attended few parties and never touched alcohol.
But she doesn’t mind. In ten years, she hasn’t hurt a single breathing thing, intentionally or otherwise. The urges have become a part of her, and each day they pass from head, to heart, to hand, to hammer and finally to metal. Rarely thanked for her work, never welcomed as warmly as the forge, as long as she can keep her peace, Mio is content to be who she is.
It’s better than what she could be.
Other Information
Mio has only learned a couple of signs to help out around the forge. Reinforce to make handling white-hot metals less dangerous, and Mend for when a project just needs a little touching up.
Full Name – Moriya Mio Age - 20 Gender - Female Occupation – Blacksmith’s Apprentice
-
P E R S O N A L I T Y
Tempered “That’s the problem, you know. You think you’re the fire, but you’re the metal.”
If it weren’t for her size, you might never know Mio was there. She speaks softly and maintains a serene demeanor, and it is by every measure an effort. She has encased herself in an armor of patience, and has not raised her voice in anger since she was still little. Her mind is filled with a myriad of calming mantras, meditative techniques, and sermons on tranquility. Quenched steel might lose its heat, but cold metal can still cut—she can’t afford to be complacent.
Imperfect Alloy “You don’t smile right, girl. If a wolf shows you its teeth, it’s not happy—it’s gonna bite you.”
The urges and impulses that plagued her as a child never went away. She knew better than to believe they could be buried, and though she tried her best to quell them, they’re still there, baked into her every moment whether she realizes it or not. Though often well-composed, one can still see that the fire in the forge doesn’t leave her when she walks away. It’s still there in her eyes, in her gait, in the bridled way she handles the curtness of others. Against her wishes, the world seems bent on trying to pry violence out of her, but even if it’s a fight she can never win, she’s determined to do her best not to lose.
Sweated Steel “Sometimes I think you wake up to remind the sun it’s got a job to do.”
Mio considers herself exceptionally hard-working, not out of arrogance but necessity. Each morning she’s up before dawn, fed and exercised and headed to the forge while the moon’s still watching. When an order comes in she gets to work immediately, heading a project herself, or assisting either Tetsu or Tsubasa as needed. In downtime she cleans, she organizes, she runs errands entirely unrelated to the forge. Anything to keep busy. Anything to keep the mind off itself. Idle hands tempt maligned action.
S K I L L S E T
Blacksmith's Apprentice Mio knows her way around a forge. Be it structural components, tools, or, sometimes, little knick-knacks just for fun, Tetsu’s shop can do it all. She’s nowhere near as skilled as her master, and as a craftsman she’s fairly sure Tsubasa is the more skillful apprentice, but Mio is no novice anymore, and she excels at repairs in particular.
Body of Work A decade of hard work and diligent exercise has made Mio almost as strong as the metals she works with. If there’s heavy lifting to be done, whether it’s around the shop or out on the town, she’s your girl. As well, her years by the forge have granted her a slight resilience to heat, and if you get too close to her you might swear she took some of its warmth with her.
Independent The soft-ostracization Mio faces from both the village and her own family forced her to learn self-reliance at a young age. As a result, she’s incredibly responsible, able to take care of herself, cook, clean, and manage both a home and the forge without much trouble. It’s done nothing for her nonexistent social skills, but it does make her a dependable handywoman.
Physical Description
Mio is imposing, and it stresses her out. She’s taller than most people in the village, even those older than she is, and practically a decade of working with heavy metals has given her a physique of hard muscle and the stamina of a field ox. Wherever she goes, Mio casts a long and intimidating shadow that most people would rather scurry out of than look up at.
If they did though, they wouldn’t find much comfort. Mio isn’t an angry looking person, but being around her, you’re likely to be struck by a disconcerting anxiety. She tries to keep on a warm smile, and on another face, her eyes might be considered safe and comforting. On her though, people swear they see something in them. They hold firelight too long and too easy, and their brightness makes it hard to tell whether she’s happy, or about to do something…bad.
Her hair is a soft sunset color, and goes down to her back. She dresses lightly for the hours spent around roaring fires and scalding metals. There are a fair few burn scars up and down her arms, and across her sides, from the early mistakes all apprentices make, but she makes no effort to hide them.
Character Conceptualization
When Mio was six years old, she smashed a frog’s leg with a rock. She remembers it vividly, and the gut-wrenching horror that rooted in her as it hopped oblongly away even more so. She remembers running to her parents, screaming and crying that the trees were going to eat her for being evil. Of course, when they found out what she’d done, they did their best to comfort her; then, when she’d finally calmed down, they scolded her gently, and brought her out to pray forgiveness for what she’d done. Kneeling there with her head pressed to the dirt, Mio had never felt so scared. Ultimately, it seemed the kami decided to spare her the agony of eternal damnation, or exile, and she went back to being a normal child.
When she was ten it happened again. Sitting on a bench behind her family’s home, a small bird perched itself on her hand. It wasn’t the first time; Mio had a penchant for stillness that most wildlife found amicable, and she often found herself subject to the company of birds, and squirrels, and wild cats. It was pleasant, usually, and there was warmth in being trusted by something so small, so soft. So fragile.
It didn’t move when she slowly closed her hand around it, but when she squeezed it fought back. It shrieked, it thrashed, it pecked at her hand with its sharp little beak and drew blood, but Mio didn’t let go. She just squeezed, until her mom found her and wrenched the poor thing out of her grasp.
This time there was no comforting. Her parents demanded answers that she didn’t have; she knew it was wrong, she felt terrible, and she didn’t know why she did it. They looked at her like a stranger, they treated her like a yokai in the shape of their daughter.
Animals didn’t come to her anymore after that. She felt an eerie discomfort whenever she drew too close to the forest, and soon that anxiousness began to follow her everywhere. The villagers seemed to sense it; there was a wariness about them when she was in their presence, even when she was still little. People stopped talking to her, stopped visiting her house. They averted their eyes like they could see something in her own that upset them. Before long, her company was scarce. Just about the only person who would actually speak to her was the local blacksmith, Tetsu, and he was more disliked than she was.
Her parents didn’t care that she spent so much time around a delinquent; it got her out of the house, away from them. Whether the man was taking pity on her, or just wanted an extra pair of hands to dump his work into, at ten Mio began to work as Tetsu’s apprentice.
The work helped. Smithing gave her a focus, a channel for the feelings she had but didn’t understand. She turned her impulses to the forge, and the crucible, and gave what remained to the flames. She started to smile again, even if she didn’t often have anyone to share it with.
As time went on, Mio grew taller than her mother, then her father, and eventually you’d have been hard-pressed to find an adult in Heisana who could stand at-eyes with her. Combined with her muscled build and the unnerving air she’s been unable to shake even into young adulthood, her regard in the village did not improve, despite her best efforts. In some ways she began to adopt Tetsu’s ill reputation, though she attended few parties and never touched alcohol.
But she doesn’t mind. In ten years, she hasn’t hurt a single breathing thing, intentionally or otherwise. The urges have become a part of her, and each day they pass from head, to heart, to hand, to hammer and finally to metal. Rarely thanked for her work, never welcomed as warmly as the forge, as long as she can keep her peace, Mio is content to be who she is.
It’s better than what she could be.
Other Information
Mio has only learned a couple of signs to help out around the forge. Reinforce to make handling white-hot metals less dangerous, and Mend for when a project just needs a little touching up.
Full Name – Moriya Mio Age - 20 Gender - Female Occupation – Blacksmith’s Apprentice
-
P E R S O N A L I T Y
Tempered “That’s the problem, you know. You think you’re the fire, but you’re the metal.”
If it weren’t for her size, you might never know Mio was there. She speaks softly and maintains a serene demeanor, and it is by every measure an effort. She has encased herself in an armor of patience, and has not raised her voice in anger since she was still little. Her mind is filled with a myriad of calming mantras, meditative techniques, and sermons on tranquility. Quenched steel might lose its heat, but cold metal can still cut—she can’t afford to be complacent.
Imperfect Alloy “You don’t smile right, girl. If a wolf shows you its teeth, it’s not happy—it’s gonna bite you.”
The urges and impulses that plagued her as a child never went away. She knew better than to believe they could be buried, and though she tried her best to quell them, they’re still there, baked into her every moment whether she realizes it or not. Though often well-composed, one can still see that the fire in the forge doesn’t leave her when she walks away. It’s still there in her eyes, in her gait, in the bridled way she handles the curtness of others. Against her wishes, the world seems bent on trying to pry violence out of her, but even if it’s a fight she can never win, she’s determined to do her best not to lose.
Sweated Steel “Sometimes I think you wake up to remind the sun it’s got a job to do.”
Mio considers herself exceptionally hard-working, not out of arrogance but necessity. Each morning she’s up before dawn, fed and exercised and headed to the forge while the moon’s still watching. When an order comes in she gets to work immediately, heading a project herself, or assisting either Tetsu or Tsubasa as needed. In downtime she cleans, she organizes, she runs errands entirely unrelated to the forge. Anything to keep busy. Anything to keep the mind off itself. Idle hands tempt maligned action.
S K I L L S E T
Blacksmith's Apprentice Mio knows her way around a forge. Be it structural components, tools, or, sometimes, little knick-knacks just for fun, Tetsu’s shop can do it all. She’s nowhere near as skilled as her master, and as a craftsman she’s fairly sure Tsubasa is the more skillful apprentice, but Mio is no novice anymore, and she excels at repairs in particular.
Body of Work A decade of hard work and diligent exercise has made Mio almost as strong as the metals she works with. If there’s heavy lifting to be done, whether it’s around the shop or out on the town, she’s your girl. As well, her years by the forge have granted her a slight resilience to heat, and if you get too close to her you might swear she took some of its warmth with her.
Independent The soft-ostracization Mio faces from both the village and her own family forced her to learn self-reliance at a young age. As a result, she’s incredibly responsible, able to take care of herself, cook, clean, and manage both a home and the forge without much trouble. It’s done nothing for her nonexistent social skills, but it does make her a dependable handywoman.
Physical Description
Mio is imposing, and it stresses her out. She’s taller than most people in the village, even those older than she is, and practically a decade of working with heavy metals has given her a physique of hard muscle and the stamina of a field ox. Wherever she goes, Mio casts a long and intimidating shadow that most people would rather scurry out of than look up at.
If they did though, they wouldn’t find much comfort. Mio isn’t an angry looking person, but being around her, you’re likely to be struck by a disconcerting anxiety. She tries to keep on a warm smile, and on another face, her eyes might be considered safe and comforting. On her though, people swear they see something in them. They hold firelight too long and too easy, and their brightness makes it hard to tell whether she’s happy, or about to do something…bad.
Her hair is a soft sunset color, and goes down to her back. She dresses lightly for the hours spent around roaring fires and scalding metals. There are a fair few burn scars up and down her arms, and across her sides, from the early mistakes all apprentices make, but she makes no effort to hide them.
Character Conceptualization
When Mio was six years old, she smashed a frog’s leg with a rock. She remembers it vividly, and the gut-wrenching horror that rooted in her as it hopped oblongly away even more so. She remembers running to her parents, screaming and crying that the trees were going to eat her for being evil. Of course, when they found out what she’d done, they did their best to comfort her; then, when she’d finally calmed down, they scolded her gently, and brought her out to pray forgiveness for what she’d done. Kneeling there with her head pressed to the dirt, Mio had never felt so scared. Ultimately, it seemed the kami decided to spare her the agony of eternal damnation, or exile, and she went back to being a normal child.
When she was ten it happened again. Sitting on a bench behind her family’s home, a small bird perched itself on her hand. It wasn’t the first time; Mio had a penchant for stillness that most wildlife found amicable, and she often found herself subject to the company of birds, and squirrels, and wild cats. It was pleasant, usually, and there was warmth in being trusted by something so small, so soft. So fragile.
It didn’t move when she slowly closed her hand around it, but when she squeezed it fought back. It shrieked, it thrashed, it pecked at her hand with its sharp little beak and drew blood, but Mio didn’t let go. She just squeezed, until her mom found her and wrenched the poor thing out of her grasp.
This time there was no comforting. Her parents demanded answers that she didn’t have; she knew it was wrong, she felt terrible, and she didn’t know why she did it. They looked at her like a stranger, they treated her like a yokai in the shape of their daughter.
Animals didn’t come to her anymore after that. She felt an eerie discomfort whenever she drew too close to the forest, and soon that anxiousness began to follow her everywhere. The villagers seemed to sense it; there was a wariness about them when she was in their presence, even when she was still little. People stopped talking to her, stopped visiting her house. They averted their eyes like they could see something in her own that upset them. Before long, her company was scarce. Just about the only person who would actually speak to her was the local blacksmith, Tetsu, and he was more disliked than she was.
Her parents didn’t care that she spent so much time around a delinquent; it got her out of the house, away from them. Whether the man was taking pity on her, or just wanted an extra pair of hands to dump his work into, at ten Mio began to work as Tetsu’s apprentice.
The work helped. Smithing gave her a focus, a channel for the feelings she had but didn’t understand. She turned her impulses to the forge, and the crucible, and gave what remained to the flames. She started to smile again, even if she didn’t often have anyone to share it with.
As time went on, Mio grew taller than her mother, then her father, and eventually you’d have been hard-pressed to find an adult in Heisana who could stand at-eyes with her. Combined with her muscled build and the unnerving air she’s been unable to shake even into young adulthood, her regard in the village did not improve, despite her best efforts. In some ways she began to adopt Tetsu’s ill reputation, though she attended few parties and never touched alcohol.
But she doesn’t mind. In ten years, she hasn’t hurt a single breathing thing, intentionally or otherwise. The urges have become a part of her, and each day they pass from head, to heart, to hand, to hammer and finally to metal. Never thanked for her work, never welcomed as warmly as the forge, as long as she can keep her peace, Mio is content to be who she is.
It’s better than what she could be.
Other Information
Mio has only learned a couple of signs to help out around the forge. Reinforce to make handling white-hot metals less of a danger, and Mend for when a project just needs a little touching up.
Affili
mickilennial
Lemons
Noctis
CitrusArms
vietmyke
Ladypug
Asura
Xiro Zean
Izurich
