Feet slapped against the dock floor, a rhythmic dull clapping against wooden boards. Tylan felt a laugh squirm out of his throat, as he threw a glance over his shoulder. Oh, how he wished to see the robed merchant give chase with his silk slippers and burdensome turban, if only for the comedy. He spent his days behind his lavish stall of carpets and ceramics, selling curious trinkets from a land seas away. His slippers would find little purchase against the slippery docks of the harbour, or the stone steps in the narrow alleys that had been polished by centuries of passing feet. Tylan slowed his sprint, coming to a jog. What did Tylan have to fear of a stout moneyed man, whose only power lay in the goods he so jealously guarded? Especially when Tylan's pockets were empty with air, and the entire fiasco was but a misunderstanding he could not care to correct.
“Tylan!” At the sound of his name, Tylan spun around, coming to a halt. A wooden doll clutched to her chest, a little girl stood, with lank blonde hair, and eyes as blue and wide as the sky. His lips slanted in a smirk, and he strode towards her, gliding through the torrential crowd to stand before her behind an abandoned stall, partially-concealed from passing eyes.
“You are far from the harbour, little one,” Tylan said, squatting in the dirt and reaching up to muss her hair. His smirk widened at her giggle. “Will you become a princess of the land now, and leave the salty air behind you for fresh meadows and dewy grass?”
“No!” She said it as though it were blatantly obvious, and Tylan was a fool for asking. “And the harbour is right there.” A skinny arm pointed out to the glittering seas, a conversation’s walk away, where tall ships were stopped and rested to unload their goods into the market Tylan danced through every day. Her doll dangled from her grimy hand, and Tylan noticed keenly that both toy and girl shared knobby, bony wrists. Why, that would not do.
He could hear over the loud murmur of the market the merchant’s voice, screaming in a high stringy voice. “So it is! Thank you for the reminder, little one,” Tylan said, leaning in to peck the girl’s cheek. She giggled again.
Springing to his feet, Tylan spread his arms. The merchant’s head snapped towards him, eyes latching greedily onto his thief. “You called, good man!” he exclaimed, as traders and buyers turned towards him curiously. He gave a little bow. “And I appear.”
The merchant had only just uttered a plea for aid from strangers and fellow vendors, when Tylan turned heel and skipped lightly away, weaving past two stalls before he stopped at a fruit-stand to inspect the last remaining apples. He plucked one from the stand and put it beneath his nose. “It has a fine scent,” he said conversationally to the bewildered monger, visibly torn between the swearing merchant and the politely-interested youth. “How much for one?”
The merchant was getting closer, pushing past the swarming crowd with the recklessness of a bull. “Um…”
“Surely one apple couldn’t possibly trade for a cod?”
“Uh – ”
“Stop him! I say, somebody, grab him!”
“It wouldn’t fetch a high price, believe me, you. Not even a cob of corn. You would make a loss, like as not. The people in the markets here, they are selective with their purchases, and dwindled apples do not appeal,” Tylan said with the unperturbed air of confiding a salacious secret to the monger.
“I – that is – ”
“Allow me to assist you with your dilemma,” he added cheerfully, with the merchant descending upon him. Without warning or grunt, he heaved the fruit-stand, upending it with a mighty crash. Wood splintered and broke; the fruit-monger gave an outcry, and women began to scream. A dozen apples bounced and rolled in all directions. People bent to pick them up; children of the streets came rushing forward to lay claim over them. Tylan lingered just long enough to glimpse one blushing apple bump to a stop against the little girl’s feet, to see her bend down and raise it to her hollowed cheeks with reverent wonder, before he was off again, galloping to race the winds, leaving the chaos and the merchant behind him.
The stone beneath his feet gave way to wood, and Tylan left the market to dash down the docks and sprint up a plank. His last step was a flying leap, and he landed lightly on the deck of the small trading ship. “Tylan Hallaw,” the captain said turning, by way of greeting.
“Captain Davos,” Tylan replied, his breaths coming quickly.
Captain Davos squinted at Tylan’s ruffled hair and flushed cheeks. “You have been in trouble again, by the grace of Wyrim.”
“Me?” Tylan was doubled over now, hands braced on his knees as he caught his breath in the salty air. The adrenalin had his blood pounding still; thrill tasted like copper in his mouth. “Never, Davos.”
The captain regarded him suspiciously, but turned to a passing member of his crew. He firmly pressed the heel of bread he had been holding into the man’s skeletal hands. “Eat, Jon. The ship needs your strength.” The captain clapped his man on the shoulder, as Jon’s hands closed gratefully around his lunch. “Have you seen Maria, Tylan?” Davos asked, turning back to the tousled-haired youth. “The girl’s gone off gallivanting on the streets again. Could have gotten married off to some street-boy by now, and I would never know.” Gruffly, the captain snorted, but beneath the grizzled beard was the hint of a jesting, if worried, smile. “If you see her in the marketplace, tell her to come home. The girl’s not eating enough, and our provisions aren’t lasting. We heap plates of food under her nose yet Maria grows thinner by the day. She hasn’t the energy for daily forages into the town.”
She learnt from her father well the art of giving, Tylan thought, but held his tongue. He could imagine just how many of the crew went to bed with not a growl in their bellies, while thanking the gods for the generosity of their captain and his daughter.
“You should not worry as much as you do. Maria is clever enow.” Tylan held Davos’ eyes, staring in a way that broached no argument into the depths of sky-blue eyes. “Methinks she and that doll of hers would have found a snack in the marketplace by now; what merchant could hope to resist spoiling such a treasure?”
As Isabelle sipped on her drink, she peered over the top of her book. The people in the cafe were slowly dwindling in numbers. It was less busy, less crowding. She felt her breaths come more easily and the knot in her chest loosen. Her eyes gravitated towards the girl who had had her personal space crowded by another boy. Isabelle had to wonder who she - or anybody in the Academy, for that matter - was. But her cheeks coloured at the thought of extending a hand to anybody, and coming forth. She was a plain Jane, and she preferred the wallpaper and sticking to the corners.
Then again, she was helplessly lost, and had to do something about.
Isabelle paid for her drink, before she gathered her possessions and courage about her to walk forward and approach the black-haired girl. "Hello," she said, formally, stiffly. "I'm new, and I've just arrived. I'm afraid I haven't the faintest clue where to go from here." She offered the smallest of smiles, and then hastily a small hand. She hoped the tremor in it was not obvious "My name is Isabelle Chia. Do you think you could help me, by any chance?"
Nodah trekked past a boulder with moss growing on one side in the choking fog, blinking against smokey arms that reached forward to blind him. His footfalls were all but silent; Nodah was no elf, but he had learnt early how to tread quietly, cautiously, that his movements made no more than a spirit's whisper as he crept through the trees. The foot he had raised froze, inches from stepping into a murky puddle of water. Its surface made for a poor looking-glass, but as Nodah withdrew his leg and landed it elsewhere dry, he could see through the gloom a shining pair of eyes that glowed yellow. He blinked, and the cat's glare was replaced by two glittering jade gemstones.
A rustle in the bushes. Nodah's breath caught in his throat. He whirled around, one hand ghosting to his waist, and the other adjusting the strap of his travelling bag on his shoulder. The possessions he'd brought were few to speak of, but they existed to burden him now, in the dense vegetation where Nodah knew not the beasts and threats. He lifted the bottom of his shirt, breaths shallow and eyes flickering in the darkness. One finger traced the handle of a blade, tucked neatly into his belt beside its five other brothers. His skill did not lie in dagger-throwing, but in corrupting the laws of gravity and flinging objects around for his amusement. Yet, what good were his powers if he lacked proper fodder? Here in the forest, Nodah did not think pine cones and leaf-litter would deter a fanged predator thirsting for blood, no matter how forcefully he cast them.
Nodah stretched out a hand to the forest floor, and his fingers flexed. A fallen branch whizzed into his grasp, and his fist curled clenched around it. Crouched into the hunter's stance, he held it before him, ready to beat at the beast that hid in the shadows if it pounced on him. He peered around him, surveying the arena for the lion to his Roman, and stilled when his gaze swept over Rosewood.
Up ahead, towering above the fog, was a tall regal structure. The archaeology was excellent, its design breathtaking. Most of all, it was his harbinger of safety and security, and only a few yards away.
Relief flooded his throat and threatened to make his words thick. He did look forward to a night in a bed after his journey. Letting his breath out in a detoxifying sigh, Nodah stepped forward, abandoning the stick he had picked up in a frantic, senseless moment.
It was the wrong move. Something bellowed in his ears, and Nodah spun on the spot, heart quickening. "Wha - " He felt the hurricane-gust of wind toss the locks of his hair carelessly, felt the grit of kicked-up sand drag its raspy hand over his cheeks. Nodah's eyes narrowed against the dirt. His right hand snatched up a dagger, and he raised it to his brow, shielding his face. But this did not obscure from his vision the featureless silhouette that roared towards him. With his heart in his throat and curses on his tongue, Nodah leapt to the side, slashing at the chest of the silhouette with his dagger. The steel blade parted through it, like smoke. Nodah's mouth went dry. How was he to defeat a shade?
He swung out the hand that held the knife, and concentrated, remembering the boulder he had passed. The silhouette had turned its head, and its smooth, blank face stared at Nodah. Like something from a dream, it slanted itself, facing Nodah with languid movements. Nodah jerked his outstretched arm and folded it over his chest. With a scream of protest, the boulder came flying past the trees. The shade was right in its path. His other hand reached out, and just before the boulder could smear the silhouette, Nodah made a violent fist. There was a split-second of pause, as the atmospheric pressure surrounding the boulder peaked dramatically, and the granite surface crumpled, like a sheet of parchment that had been crinkled wastefully into a ball. There was a deafening crash. Nodah ducked, curling his body away from the torrent of stone fragments that pelted his skin. He felt one strike his elbow, and gasped at the sharp dash of pain and release, as blood undoubtedly rose to swell. When Nodah looked up once more, the silhouette was gone, and he was alone.
Plunging the dagger back into its sheathe, Nodah looked down at the unevenly-shaped pebbles that now lay scattered. He rose his foot and took a step, the forest-floor crunching like gravel beneath him now. As he walked towards the school, he inspected the cut on his elbow. It was neither fatal nor worthy of concern, an accident, was all.
An echoing voice rang, "Congratulations, Nodah Listig. You have successfully completed the final step for your acceptance into Rosewood. Performance rank: A." Nodah did not break stride, eyeing the open iron-wrought gates that loomed before him. "Hooray for me," he muttered hollowly, flashing eyes flat.
Nodah was going to step over the threshold, into Rosewood. Why could he not summon the joy, the triumph, the relief, of having acquired a position in a prestigious school, where attendance was a privilege? He thought of what he had left behind. He should have been overwhelmed by emotions to have successfully escaped his past, that treacherous monster that had until so recently been his present. Except, Nodah wasn't. Nodah could not muster the feelings required of him.
He almost walked right by the pixie. Eyes shuttered close, clothes green, and hair the colour of emerald, the creature was breathing, curled up on the ground. He was stained crimson, from a wound on the head. It was the blood that compelled Nodah to kneel - he who summoned everything to his hands before he bent. The pixie was no larger than a fruit. Nodah's lips quirked in bemusement, and he leaned forward to inspect the pixie further, eyes flashing indigo, then blue, then yellow, as he took in every detail. One finger brushed the pixie's hair aside gingerly, looking for the wound. When he was satisfied with what he'd gathered, Nodah prodded the minuscule shoulder for a reaction to gauge his degree of consciousness.
Name: Tylan (Tie-ler-n) Hallaw Age: 21 Gender: Male Sexual Orientation: Bisexual Role in Society: Commoner Occupation: Sailor
Legend: The Battle Upon Red Waves was a bloody affair between rivaling bands of pirates and smugglers, scuffling for dominance of the black-market in the region’s seas. Scores of ships clashed over waves. Cannons became the song of the night as the sky turned black, and the waters even darker. Flaming arrows descended like thick rain, setting fire to ship and man alike. Hundreds of screaming torches fell overboard, only to be engulfed by the thrashing waves, pulled down to the seafloor for the fish to feast on. As the Battle waged on, a foreign prince watched from the shore, worried eyes flecked with gold from the flaming beacons on the water, for his betrothed was lost at sea, trapped on a galley caught in the corrupted wrestle for power and gold.
They say that the ship appeared from nowhere, as though a curtain had been drawn and spliced, to reveal the standard of the princess’ father, rippling and tossed high in the ocean wind. The galley cut through the water, and at its head, steering it from storm to port, stood a skinny boy of ten-and-six. A commoner from the worst part of town, who’d never set foot on a ship before, but had at that moment taken to sailing as a fish takes to water. So skillfully did he maneuver the ship on his maiden voyage, that not one arrow had befallen the deck, as was discovered when dawn came and the galley was inspected for damage. So talented was he, that the princess raved about him to her beloved when they were reunited. “He crept forth from the depths of the stores,” she cried, “when the captain suffered an arrow to the shoulder.” The only casualty to be had aboard the princess’ galley. “He took over the wheel without a pause, and as the night grew dark, he grew only bolder.
“He danced on the waves, a courteous lead. Oh, he was brave, no doubt can there be! He called for the crew to move down below, while he stayed on deck, and beckoned the blows. Fall they did, a relentless hail. But none struck us, with him we were hale. Arrows drowned in the water, and pierced not we. Cannons would not bother, sorcery it must be! And when a pirate flew onto the ship, he protected his deck, with a sword through the hip.”
The boy-hero was commended for defending the galley and bringing the prince his bride, but he would give no name. During the ceremony of gratitude, after the prince had presented him with a bag of gold and the nobles attending struck up a dance in his honour, the boy slipped away soundlessly. The prince and princess never found him again, or learned who he was, and the boy-hero has been dubbed Lord Stowaway, a faceless legend young boys hear when bounced on the knees of their dams.
The thrashing waves enslave my heart as would a wife. The pirates and smugglers and nomads of the sea: they are my brothers.
Appearance: Tall, thin, and reedy, Tylan is extremely light – both on his feet and in terms of weight – with a mop of brown, unruly curls crowning his head. He is agile, with sinewy muscles and unadvertised strength.
Personality: Tylan can appear mischievous, bordering on childish. His behaviour is not malevolent, but slightly chaotic. Energetic, he comes across as high-spirited with his laughter and smirks. However, Tylan is just as likely to be chuckling at a joke, as he is to be scanning his companion for chinks in the armour, opportune for a dagger in the back should the need present itself. Innately dark-humoured, Tylan is – in reality – discerning and brooding, but does not oft give the impression of being anything other than immature. His juvenility is for the most part deliberate and exaggerated, a constant dramatic performance. Tylan is no fool, but acting as one has given him the occasional advantage, that he plays to the fullest. Behind the japes and façade, Tylan is intelligent, cunning, and prone to the occasional moment of sobriety and generosity.
Skills: Sailing (Master) – Tylan is most at home aboard a ship’s deck. He has sailed the far seas, knows of many a shipman’s tale, and can don a sailor’s tongue when it befits the situation. His stomach is iron-cast as well when he rides the waters, and seasickness does not plague him. He can scale a ship-mast as well as a squirrel shimmies up a tree, and is easily mistaken for a monkey when he leaps from the ropes and riggings of a ship. Knife-Handling (Master) – From deftly sawing through fisherman’s rope, to cleanly slitting a throat, Tylan knows intimately how to arm himself with daggers and knives. He isn’t half-bad at throwing them either, and his aim is something to boast of. Spearing (Expert) – Lighter than swords, but with a greater reach, the spear is no stranger to Tylan, who has found the weapon practical on both land and sea. Tylan has speared fish-bellies for dinner before when he tired of maritime provisions, and has fended off his share of incensed merchants in the markets with the nearest object – often a long skinny stick, abandoned by passing visitors. He knows how to flick his wrist just right to land a blow that thwacks against his opponent’s side, and how to drive the butt of the spear into another’s ribs and steal his air. He can also twirl a spear expertly behind his back, but that particular skill is reserved for cocky show-offs. Archery (Journeyman) – Tylan does not spend much time on land, but half of it is devoted to learning archery from a kindly traveller who frequents the ports once a full moon. He favours his blades, but the utility of a bow and arrow is not lost upon him.
Combat Flaws: Suited for nimbleness and haste, Tylan does not have the strength to wield or swing a sword for long. Shove a longsword into his hands and he is like to bleed before the fifth cut. Wounds sustained in battle will also take their toll on Tylan, whose health is admittedly not the strongest, which is why his defensive stance surpasses his offensive.
Personality Flaws: Tylan is untrusting, and skittish around the strange. He does not lend his loyalty easily, and will erect a fortress of suspicion around himself that takes twice as long to dismantle as it does to build. Similarly, Tylan is not to be trusted wholeheartedly. He will avoid base treacheries where possible, but should push come to shove, his survival will still take precedence over all else. This trait might make him selfish, and a craven, but it preserves him. Of course, his habit of overplaying his immaturity is another point to note.
Magic Spells: -
Abilities: (Tylan is a youth of one-and-twenty years, with humble experience to speak of. Furthermore, the persona he chooses to don makes it rather difficult for hardship to come his way and be endured, so that Jergal might bequeath him with Deep Magic.)
Backstory: Tylan is a baseborn lad, son to a whore. Bastards aren’t few and far between, but the shame they bear upon their names like a cross above their hearts can be potent enough to follow them through their lives. The brothel his mother resided in was located just to the side of the harbour, and Tylan’s earliest memory as a tyke included him dodging around merchants’ stalls and crates of fish. He remembers toddling up a damp wooden plank, feeling it rocking beneath his feet, only to be plucked up by the armpits. The well-meaning sailor didn’t want to contend with barely-whelped stowaways, but Tylan needed only to flash a precocious smile for the sailor’s resolve to dissolve. Few ships at the harbour could close themselves to a young boy with harmless flashing eyes since. Tylan feels most at home onboard any deck, and learnt that day to beguile and charm to attain his whims.
His mother has long since passed, but Tylan found unlikely kin among the sea-bound. They entertain his company when they stop at port; bring him trinkets, and bawdy raucous stories of battle, trade, and women from far-away lands. When he was eleven he sailed for the first time on a maiden voyage. Though the journey was to a neighbouring port, and no further, it thrilled Tylan to no end. The rock and lull of the boat, the icy spray of the sea: he loved it all, and spent the next five years learning from the most lucrative of traders, pirates and smugglers how to man a ship, learning the ropes with deft hands.
By the time he was ten-and-six and the Battle Upon Red Waves crossed his path, Tylan was no stranger to the seas, as the songs and stories would have others believe. Tylan had been aboard the galley, only because he’d called in favours from the captain, who was as familiar to Tylan as a brother. He commandeered the wheel when his brother-at-sea could no longer hold it, and when one of the princess’ knights presumed to demand he relinquish it, Tylan barked out a sharp order that the princess and her entourage be protected. Gods forbid that a grassland knight who knew only how to seat a horse between his legs try to command a ship. Like as not, the knight would only dash them against the rocks and corals. The galley-crew hastened to obey, and ushered the princess and her pesky knight away to safer quarters.
Though there was a storm of arrows, there was no rain. Steering was no more difficult than it would have been on a warm summer’s day, and the fire around them made for adequate lighting. Tylan was blissfully fortunate: the pirates and smugglers had by then exhausted their supply of arrows, and the brief reprieve let Tylan breathe easy as he steered the galley into harbour, where an overjoyed prince was waiting for his love. Once Tylan was handed the reward he had tried to refuse, he climbed out the window, before the newly-weds could ensnare him once more with talk of uprooting him and making him their Master of Ships in the nation they would rule together. He was still a child, only six-and-ten, and he did not seek responsibility. He returned to his life of darting through the market, and sailing the seas, taking opportunities to man ships as they came.
Tylan gradually shed the moniker Lord Stowaway of his youth as he grew older, living an unassuming life of adventures at sea and daily acts. He continues to play the foolish child, because the brazen pirates and smugglers he comes across so easily fall for his performance. Those who know how to roar with laughter become his fast friends. Those who do not can only swear, and shake their fists at him, because they have likely lost something to Tylan when they realise the act – a bet, valuables, or pride. And nothing hurts quite so much as injured dignity.
Wouldn't be terribly hard to run the group that way first... though it is going all the way from the north to the south, haha. Meanwhile I can try and keep him preoccupied with the shadows that seem to be spreading everywhere. Yeah, I could work it I think. ^.^
Haha, alright, if you say so. It's very kind of you! Is there anything else that needs amending for Tylan?
Living in the GMT+8 timezone, with important assessments awaiting in 2016! Forgive me if my schedule refuses to cooperate
[center](Have this gif as an apology ahead of time)
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<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">Living in the GMT+8 timezone, with important assessments awaiting in 2016! Forgive me if my schedule refuses to cooperate<br><br><div class="bb-center">(Have this gif as an apology ahead of time)<br><img src="https://49.media.tumblr.com/0df9be0807afaec230cfd9d0157ae8d9/tumblr_myxqvgh1WF1rbfgpwo1_500.gif" /></div></div>