Virgil

Legacy of the Dark Earls

Legacy of the Dark Earls Character: Iraasnej Ithiler of Yvindel

Name: Iraasnej Ithiler

Sex: Male

Age: Fifty-Two

Backstory(9,5,37): An elderly fellow lacking in any ability to feel 'fear', Ithiler has grown to see--as far as he knows and cares--all that the world has to offer. His family upbringing in part attributed to a great desire to learn and converse, and his choice of words and actions earned the academic a great deal of respect all throughout his life. It is for this reason that the Yvindel scholar chose to become a member amongst the well admired thinkers of his city -- those of the Archaeus Literarium. Through the years that followed, Iraasnej always kept up a great moral discipline about his person, studying and conversing constantly -- that he might achieve his intellectual ambitions. However, this choice also came with a great consequence, as--unlike his elder and younger brother--he never came about to having the time or charm to successfully find a love that matched his level of mental accomplishment. The only secondary who came even remotely close happened to be that of Queen Esal herself. Indeed, while her husband busied himself with the various issues of the crown, she took great leisure in exploring the many wonders of the outside world -- notably through the hundreds of tomes and scrolls kept within the Literarium. In time, the elder scholar and the younger queen formed a bond akin to that of family, and--when he had time for it--Iraasnej took pleasure in acting as a tutor and guide for the younger woman.

Sadly, such is the nature of life that joyous times such as these cannot last, and it was with solemn lament that--upon the birth of her only daughter--the now Headmaster of the Literarium recieved news of the queen's passing in childbirth; and along with this, her final will that the girl--who's name was Jalani--be put under his private instruction.

Fourteen years and to this day, he has kept true to her will, raising the budding youth in all manner of studies and philosophy, that she might one day be an even greater ruler than either her mother or father.

Description: Standing at 170 centimeters in height, Iraasnej carries his lean frame well beneath the scholar's multi-layered, white&green robes. His skin comes off as of a yellowed hue when he stays indoors too long, but it is naturally a light tan. Topping his crown is a well-kept head of long, dark black hair, albeit trimmed along the temples with specks of grey here and there. His facial structures are very pronounced, forming a very striking expression upon first glance of his wrinkled, clean-shaven visage; the whole of which ultimately end up complimenting the passive demeanor of his brown eyes. He is quite educated, and chooses to be as precise as possible with his words -- that there might be little to no miscommunication between himself and the audience. He is also quite interested in learning, and will be more than happy to pass along what he has subsequently picked up to any and all who might ask.

Knowledge/Skills/Equipment: As stated previously, the elder Ithiler has built his reputation around his excelling performance in the academic world. His mind contains almost as much knowledge as the many hundreds of tomes stored within the Literarium's vast archives; and he has acquired the habit of memorizing and recalling this information in great frequency, that he might keep it 'Fresh' within the interiors of his mind. As for the martial arts, Iraasnej has *read* through a few of the manuals...but due to the time constraints of his work--and a general lack of enthusiasm for the art--this is about as far as he's ever kept up with the subject. Instead, he prefers the occasional 'Light' dabbling in the medical fields -- for truly, the able doctor is far often more capable of disabling than the average soldier or ruffian. Again, however, very little of the former has ever been put into any sort of practical application, and the elder often prefers the simple --yet accomplished-- title of "Scholar". He is almost always seen in scholarly robes, and accompanied by his trusty walking staff -- the latter of which has only *Rarely* seen the odd back-side of the disorderly youth; indeed, he is seen *so often* in these robes--with the minor exception of his night-gown and the robes given out around the Public Baths--that a few have ventured to jest the "--Scholar's robes might as well be his skin, its hood his hair, and all else about him a mere deception of the appearance."

Legacy of the Dark Earls

Unhindered, the massive fire-wall now stretched the length of the outer district, its unrelenting flames licking crops and abandoned houses left in the wake of innumerable terrified hearth-keepers. Divinely did it glow, casting shadows all its own across the landscape; and now the penned beast ravaged its cage with cruel ferocity. Here it devoured the golden strands of wheat and green husks of corn -- there it sucked in cows too close to the vacuum-like flame. No escape, no alternative, no mercy could be had from this annihilator, this gods' wrath...

Crammed thick within the center of the thronging mass, the roughly-cut, winded beggar struggled desperately to keep his head above the churning ocean of escapees. Thrice now, he'd seen others go under, disappearing entirely beneath the weight of this mighty wave as it broke against the wall in a desperate plea for survival. Forwards...then back...now forwards again -- he felt his elbows land numerous times into the faces of others, seeking, FIGHTING to escape the rapidly approaching hunger that loomed in the distance; its ever growing shadow only serving to further increase the intensity of the emotions rippling through the crowd. Fear, despair, and ignorance combined within the wicked cauldron that was the entire length of the 30-meter entry-gate--one of three, now fully packed--and the crowd grew even wilder. Outcries burst decibel levels as they mutated into horrendous screams, the heads of some bobbed once or twice, then sunk under entirely. Children resting atop the shoulders of their guardians plunged below with the fall of their mobile platforms, and through all of this, Feraen continued onwards. The aching of his body, the solemn throbbing inside his head, the blurred vision in his swollen eyes mattered little in the unmasked face of true, internal survival instinct. Again and again he seemed to be submerged, dragged under by those attempting to do as he did, fighting the tide that they might live through this terrifying ordeal; but again and yet again he found the strength to retaliate. Once, he felt his fingers claws the eyes of another, tearing 'them' down in order to surpass them. Another would be felled after he yanked them back by the neck, pushing them into the faces and hands of those behind his ragged frame. His eyes--swollen as they might be--stayed quite fully open, vividly analyzing the chaotic state of affairs within the tunnel. The enormous portcullis raised over-head, the hopeful exit just meters away from him now, the horrid din that echoed and deafened the stone-workings around the horde; and the large wooden doors seeming so distant from his position...as well as the snarling light that seemed so close, spurring the beggar into an even greater frenzied panic to escape. There was a massive grating racket from above, and the shrill screams of dozens as a scattered spray landed across the backs of those closest to the portcullis. The beaten man dared enough to glance back at the horrific scene--

--they'd closed the grille right on top of those still passing beneath it; and worse...locking off those pleading, crying, shouting, bawling unfortunates who'd yet to make it past. They took hold of the great, hefty wooden beams with their multitude of dirty, sweaty, clinging hands; they clambered along the barrier and stretched their arms through the gratings, crying out to be saved...

...but the crowd moved on, the divided survivors continued to push forwards, leaving behind their homes, their livelihoods...and for some, their beloved ones. The chaos continued -- but it was enough to know that those who 'could' escape, 'did' escape.

For the rest...on this day, their part in history was marked. But history moves on, just as the survivors did.
Outside the raging, furious terrors, the witch and her siege-crews finished packing the articles of war, transporting them 'around' the great city. It was marvelous, watching as the denizens of that proud settlement scurried further and further south, away from the flames -- some even going so far as to attempt to hurl themselves over their own proud walls. Such was the beauty of this stratagem, the 'irony', if one had the tastes for it. What better way to defeat a mighty giant than by collapsing its own house in around it? Still--entertaining as these dreams might seem to her--she knew they had little time to spare; The plan had been set, and they must stick to it.

After all, they still had two districts to go.

Legacy of the Dark Earls

The solid, undeterred strength of the dust-covered boot hammered deep into the crawling beggar's stomach, causing him to hack forth a breathless grunt of pain. The ragged figure now fully collapsed onto the roadside, open mouth gaping like that of a fish out of water -- all the while numbly waiting for his internals to reorganize themselves into the coherent state of 'breathing' that they were normally used to. Both lips lay cracked open on that dry earth -- tongue cut and bleeding from the man having inadvertently bitten it. Another powerful kick landed him upside the head, whip-lashing his face--and a newly acquired broken nose--onto its opposite side, coughing and sputtering forth crimson iron as the enraged voice of a distant tormentor seemed to mumble in a frighteningly loud tone. Slowly, it faded into the background, seconded to the emerging darkness that now began to consume his consciousness...

A sharp sting struck him across the face, and moments afterwards he could feel his upper-torso lifted. One after the other, both swollen eyes peaked open to stare in dreaded anticipation at the red-faced demon that now held his collar. Both pupils watched as another fist raised upwards for an assumed finishing blow. However, the faint sound of ripping clothes preceded a dramatic escape of this fate, as his collar tore itself from Feraen's shirt, thereby allowing him to slip out of the grasp of his attacker. He landed heavily, seeking--despite the aching pains pounding out across his body--to scurry away on his hands and knees. Footsteps recovered from their stupor, and he managed to rise to his feet, stumbling and stop-starting all over the road in his flight of flurry. Something seemed...off, however -- though he didn't dare look back, lest he lose any sort of distance advantage he had over his pursuer.

And so he ran...

...and ran...

...and kept on running, all the while expending the powerful surge of adrenaline he'd gained earlier; now, he began to ease off...

...and slow down a bit more...finally stopping entirely as he dropped to his scraped knees, huffing and panting for breath. What would it matter if he was caught now, he couldn't go another step. Let it be done then -- and with this final thought, the beggar shut his eyes tight, waiting...

...his left eye flickered open, rotating with the turn of his head as he looked backwards over his shoulder.

No sign of his presumed captor, but...something far, far worse. A beast of malignant flame and smoke, columns high and almost as wide as the district itself. The man gazed in awe and terror at the billowing form as it shifted dreamily across the massive fields, swallowing them whole as it used the city's own harvest for fuel. A ripple of cold tingled down his backside whilst he sat there...just...staring.

"..."

Legacy of the Dark Earls

Legacy of the Dark Earls Character: Feraen Dulcimer

Name: Feraen Dulcimer

Sex: Male

Age: Twenty-Four

Backstory(37,18,4): For the vast majority of his--relatively short--life, Feraen has wandered back and forth over the grey line, often venturing for longer periods into "The darkness" than he'd stay in "The light". As a child, a peculiar madness plagued his merchant family -- specifically, the minds of his father and elder brother. One was--as many stated--"...warped, confused, as though it belonged to an abused dog rather than that of a 'man'."; meanwhile, the other had been regarded just the opposite. A kind, innocent soul -- harmless, but forgiving for any he might accidentally incur. The mentalities of the father and the son clashed and eventually culminated in the 'accidental' death of Feraen's elder brother, who was said to have fallen and cracked open his crown on the stone-work roads.

Feraen loathed the man of suspect that tromped about their home, acting as though his first-born had never been, speaking only of "My only son" when addressed on the subject. The broken state of the first gradually wore on the second--all the more helped along by the support of the mother going towards her husband's innocence--until he too snapped, soon becoming cast out of the family--and subsequently cut from all ties with the guild--for his 'unsuccessful' attempt in suffocating the twisted brute in his sleep. Such was the severity of these consequences that--as a matter of precaution--the boy, at the meager age of thirteen, was exiled not just from home and career, but indeed from the very DISTRICT he lived in; and within hours of his disinheritance, the youth was on his own in the outer-most wall, home to peasants and serfs, slaves, beggars and the remainder of those seen 'unfit' to live within the gentle caress of civilized society.

Four years of working honestly and earning his keep granted the boy a place to stay in the caring home of one such serf-family; who--though poor--worked well and provided plentifully for those kept in their trust. It was during this period that Feraen met Tara, and grew to cherish and admire this wife of the home...and perhaps a bit too much, at that. He never stated such compassions openly, but was eventually undone by his burning desires when--on the night of a particularly good harvest--his hand reached a bit 'too far' towards the woman, who rebuked his drunken passes...which only enraged his loose state of mind. Though the rest was all a garish nightmare during the morning after, he did remember enough to understand how it 'came to be' that said hand went missing over the course of a painfully terrifying night -- replaced instead by a cauterized stump cleansed and wrapped in bandages; and also how--yet again--he found himself outlawed amongst those who'd once been so kind to him. Since then, seven years have crawled past, torturing the agonized beggar-drunk, who seeks the bottle as often as possible in order to escape his pains -- and the rapidly deteriorating inner workings of his mind.

Description: Feraen stands at a height of 173 centimeters, with a lean, ragged and tanned frame clothed by torn and faded sack-cloth pants and shirt; both items having clearly been adjusted over the years to fit his growth. His face is covered by a six-o-clock shadow, and his lengthy hair is filled with all manner of terrain mixed a midst dark sepia distinction. He speaks in a rather broken manner, more than likely a byproduct of the many teeth lost to malnourishment and an excessive lack of self-care; and he is also quite incapable of much physical labor as an added result of such a poor diet -- that being of scraps and whatever else he could steal without getting caught and beaten. Ironically, he can now be described in much the same way as his father -- albeit without the family fortune to back any sort of proper care. And--though curious--he is also incredibly quick to anger, seeing it as safer to keep himself distanced from passerby-folk.

Knowledge/Skills/Equipment: Also ironically given his state, the young man has become quite adept at sneaking around and--if/when caught--subsequently bolting away from the objects of his desire...namely food and drink. Another given contradiction to his appearance is that he is quite observant--despite his usual, sickly looks--and can recognize danger far faster than others, though this can also lead to a certain paranoia against trusting others. Other than that, he knows and owns little to nothing, concentrating instead on merely 'surviving', despite nature seemingly wanting to be rid of him.

Legacy of the Dark Earls

[Edit] Reworked, check the "Tools" tab for more.

Legacy of the Dark Earls

Hey, neither have I!

"The final frontier..."

Legacy of the Dark Earls

There, yonder, past the motley line of brush and trees -- beyond the range of so many peasant's terrors. It stood tall and proud, surrounded five-fold by mighty sentry towers, and mightier, lofty brick-work barricades between them. Over the course of centuries the walls of the stone city had been coated and recoated in hundreds of thousands of gallons of lime-wash; to the consistent, splendorous effect of casting the entire collage of structures from a singular piece of rock. For six, hundred, years it had sat there -- slowly expanding, slowly growing in strength. In infancy it had been nothing more than a hastily constructed Keep -- a retreat for the cowardly lord that'd so brutally worked his serfs to finish it. Only 'after' he perished did it 'truly' begin to flourish, steadily adding atop itself. First, another hut, a doctor's hut; and following this...? A blacksmith's lodge for the rescued smith's son -- his father had died a midst the terrifying forms that occupied the great forests surrounding the tiny settlement, only occasionally breaking forth--thankfully into the ready blades of the land's guardians--at the tempting intrigue of a stray or weak worker. Steadily, gradually, the land was tilled and sown; years came and went, and the village grew into a town; and from there--following the birth of its greatest benefactor--it sprouted magnificent walls. Walls telling of a place of great protection, or great opportunity. A place of life and death, work and relaxation, career and sloth. And with these triumphs rose the population, capable of providing more for the expansive community, capable of allowing for a greater surplus of supplies to be used most ably by its myriad of craftsmen. From workers of the plow, to thinkers of the pen and from there to artisans of the polearm...all of these things would arise, in time. And the city would become renowned for its culture, for its long history, for its masterful achievements, for the tremendous shelter it gave to those trying to escape the chaos outside its walls.

It would 'be' a great city.

It 'is' a great city.

And the city was born with a single name...

...."Yvindel!"

"...And the people would shout and praise its great walls, and its powerful military, and its tremendous economy. It would be worshiped by all those who loved and cherished it, and they would shout--and are 'still' to this day shouting...that name..."

She paused, gazing upon the speckled city that glimmered so brightly on the plains. Outside of the reach of the darkness, it seemed to glorify itself in the naked eye of the great creator above, who's fiery beams lit upon its shimmering white walls, and the great, thronging multitude of rooftops that--assuredly--outshone an even greater number below the line of sight. The sight from 'outside' those massive walls, away from the great shelters it provided, and the innumerable happy families it had birthed, and the immense plains of wheat and crop grown to sustain it, and all the other many wonderful things 'it' had created. The woman raked her pale, slender fingers through the sloppy mess of jagged, jet-black hair atop her head, completing the history:

"...and today, that name will live no longer."

Following the signal of her risen arm as it jutted forth, the creaking groan of their preliminary trebuchet shot flew overhead the witch's ears. With a rapid sense of urgency, the hurtled cargo sailed through the air, progressively decreasing in size as it passed further and further more beyond the mind's eye. She watched as it arced, dropping...dropping...

"MISS! RE-ADJUST FOR ANOTHER SIXTY YARDS!", came the shouting cry of one of the secondaries, his voice sending the lengthy line of trebuchet crews speeding into action as they set about following the command. Midia expired in minor disappointment -- what a waste of a good speech; though, she supposed she'd probably been the only one capable of hearing it at that soft a tone. A set of five digits rapped impatiently along the spear in her right, waiting for the others to finish correcting their error.

Talk about waste -- the short woman's blue eyes seemed to lapse from the anxious excitement they'd held before. They trailed the package, observing the faint dot as it dropped just short of the eastern outer wall, bursting forth into a wicked titian flame. It snarled and whipped about there, in the distance, as the siege engines readied for a more accurate volley.

"READY!"

Again, her arm summarily rose and fell, preceding the groaning launch of several dozen fire-bombs as they raced across the sky, striking past the first wall. Less than a minute passed, and what little smoke the first miss had produced was now replaced by a long, thick barrier of the choking smog -- its presence casting a foreboding shadow over that proud engineering feat. The first wall--home to the majority of the city's agriculture--would soon be in uproar, with massive, enraged fires greedily devouring the bountiful surpluses...all they need do was wait.

Wait for their opportunity.

Wait for the first stage of the end.

Legacy of the Dark Earls

~~[RP Start]~~

Mage, Peasant, and Necromancer

Just checking, thanks for the fast response though!

Mage, Peasant, and Necromancer

So, am I correct in assuming the role of 'Peasant' is still open -- or is it merely reserved?