"I think we'll get along wonderfully."Widolaic "Viddle" von Vestra
Age18 Born the 11th of the Lone Moon
Country of OriginAdrestian Empire
Social StandingHeir of House Vestra
CrestMajor Crest of Lamine
Widolaic's Crest allows her to weave spells from two elements
Starting ClassMonk
Weapon of ChoiceBlack Magic
StrengthsReason, Faith
WeaknessesAxes, Heavy Armor
Starting SpellsFire, Thunder, Heal
PersonalityWhen one thinks of an heir to House Vestra, they may envision a shadowy, hooded figure lurking in the shadows, coldly hunting their next victim, or perhaps a calculating spymaster without worldly attachment, pulling the strings of a thousand living puppets across Fódlan. This person would be harsh, unapproachable, with a permanent scowl bolted to their face. While this description might certainly fit the current Lord of the House, it does not fit his successor.
Widolaic is outgoing, and cheerful, and values building connections through friendships and healthy acquaintances. It’s rare to see her without a smile on her face, and rarer still to hear an unkind word pass her lips. Her talent for magic however, betrays a diligent and studious work ethic, which she applies to everything she does. After all, as a Vestra, her chief responsibility is problem solving on any scale.
While most would find her an agreeable person with too much goodwill and empathy for her House, others seem to think she’s suited for it perfectly. They see her rise to heirdom as a grab for power, motivated by some warped, loveless morality that holds nothing but contempt for her fellow man.
The truth, as it often does, lies somewhere in between.
HistoryWhen the plague ravaged Adrestia, many in Fódlan were relieved to see the once mighty House Vestra wither, its numerous and far-reaching branches pruned to a meager number that could hardly regulate the shadows of their own home, let alone meddle in the affairs of their neighbors. So it fell to Lord Ulrich Vestra, now a widower, to ensure his family name did not slough from the Empire’s diseased body like a scab in the recovery. He needed to repair the vast network of spymasters and wet-workers that had kept Adrestia functioning beneath the surface; he needed to replenish the ranks of the Imperial Guard with people the emperor could trust—and more importantly, that he could trust. Most of all, though, he needed a successor.
His son Karl was a Crest bearer, but unlike other Houses, that did not immediately entitle him to heirdom. The Vestra family’s proclivity for secrecy afforded Ulrich a fair amount of leeway in how he ran his House, and so, whether he wanted to temper Karl into a worthy successor, or simply did not trust him to live up to the responsibilities, the Vestra patriarch made a decision.
Widolaic, alongside her elder brother Wulfric, their branch’s ward, Gunhilde, and a dozen other youths, were plucked from the remaining branches and brought to Lord Ulrich’s estate. In the shade of the ancient oak tree in his court yard, he told them their fates: the future of House Vestra would fall to one of them, and so while he worked to rebuild their inheritance, they would compete to find the one worthy of inheriting it. They would live there, at the estate, until they either quit the contest, proved themselves unworthy, or could no longer compete. He bade them take their time, and use whatever means they saw fit, but reminded them that killing was strictly forbidden, and if they were found guilty of such a crime, they would suffer death themselves.
To all who had ever known him in any personal capacity the emphasis was clear: If.
Some might have found the practice distasteful, or even foolish with their numbers already so diminished in the plague's wake, but Ulrich thought otherwise. A family who made its name stealing secrets and dragging knives across throats around the Empire needed someone who could both perform, and survive. He would not settle.
House Vestra, large as it had been, was possessed of three Crests, all of which had managed to survive the plague. They belonged to Karl, Gunhilde, and Widolaic, the youngest among them. Karl was teenaged and bristling with ambition, but Gunhilde was the true favorite to win; she was brilliant even at fourteen, and had equal talents for subterfuge and knifework. As a ward, she had helped raise both Widolaic and Wulfric, and swore to keep them safe, until the contest’s end, where she would raise them up alongside her as the head of House Vestra. Some thought she would win within the year, others guessed it might only take her a month to best Karl, after which the rest would surely wilt and concede.
She was dead in a week, falling suddenly and fatally ill in the middle of a social gathering. One moment her nose began to bleed, the next she collapsed on the ballroom floor. Widolaic spent the following few nights huddled close to Wulfric, as the two waited in their room for the mysterious assailant to find them next. But the attempt on their lives never came—at least, not as it had for Gunhilde.
The reality of the contest was slow and winding. Karl was older than most of them, but he also lacked the tact and subtlety to force anyone out without implicating himself. So, after the first death, for awhile there was nothing. For a long time, in fact, there was nothing.
A year later young Reinbald conceded, and returned to his branch without admonishment from Ulrich, but also without farewell. Those who lost and survived could still serve the House, after all, if in a lesser capacity. Adelbrand and Margold, siblings from another distant branch, departed not long after, one with a broken arm, the other with a few less teeth. Three more left in as many years after, deflated but whole. Five remained and for five more years, there was relative peace.
Widolaic had taken to magic, her brother Wulfric to blades. At nineteen he was a prodigal tactician, with a spymaster’s insight and an assassin’s reflex. With his Crest he was quickly overtaking Karl’s spot as the favorite to win. Their plan was obvious but simple: just like Gunhilde had intended, the siblings would whittle down the competition until only the two of them remained, at which point Widolaic would concede, and Wulfric would rise as heir to the House.
Widolaic, for her part, spent much of her time dismissive of the contest. She socialized with the denizens of the estate, even her competition, and on occasion the Lord himself, who had for some reason seen fit to keep her around despite how poorly she represented the Vestra name. At social gatherings she did not skulk the edges and eavesdrop on unaware nobles, but rather spoke loudly and cheerfully and danced with as many people as she could before the drinks took her balance away. She made friends whenever possible, and friendly acquaintances when more distance was necessary. By her fifteenth year, hardly a soul had anything bad to say about her, except that she really didn’t belong in House Vestra. Too kind, too soft, too open with others; perhaps she'd eventually find herself marrying into a more pleasant family.
Two more years went by. Auglind fell into a wakeless slumber one night, and quick-fingered Gunther was caught with a matching poison in his room. One-eyed Ren, the last of the least-qualified, quietly excused himself from the competition and was gone before the year was over. That left only the siblings and Karl.
For the better part of a decade, Karl had reinvented himself into a man his father could trust. He traded his brashness for cunning, his swords for knives, and his hedonistic lifestyle for one of artful guile. The tension at Ulrich’s estate wound itself tight; any day now, they said, one of them would die. They were right.
On the morning of the siblings’ shared birthday, Karl fell face-first into his porridge and breathed no more. The cause of death could not be placed precisely, but they had all seen it before—his nose bled briefly, and then he died.
Lord Ulrich called a meet beneath the oak tree, tall still as the day they’d arrived. The siblings stood apart, and though they were unharmed, Wulfric felt ill nonetheless. But then he saw his sister, still alive, and she smiled at him like she had every day for the past twelve years: like her beloved brother and protector, the future lord of their House who would keep her safe.
And with a fiery bolt of Thunder, Widolaic struck him down.
Later, once the chaos had subsided, Lord Ulrich visited her in her cell. The rest of the House was convinced she had made a desperate, guileless play for power at the last moment. But she disagreed. She told him she was only following his rules—for Wulfric had poisoned Gunhilde and escaped justice, until now. It had taken years to accomplish, of course, and she had first needed to deal with the rest of the hopefuls. Those who were too meek or unfit, she led to forfeit their ambitions for safety. Others she pitted against one another through forged notes and tampered materials—Auglind, she assured, would wake one day, though poor Gunther was already buried. She apologized for Karl, but she and Ulrich both agreed that despite his change, he was no leader, and would not have accepted defeat.
He asked her why she had done all of this. She said that Gunhilde had been kind, and would have made a good heir.
Lord Ulrich pardoned her, but never explained himself. Instead, he called an end to the contest and declared Widolaic his successor. There were objections, but ultimately the decision was his, and though he was older now than he had been, few were those who would question him openly.
Shortly thereafter, Little Viddle Vestra was bound for the Officer’s Academy.
Trivia- Widolaic adores a good beef stew.
Lemons
Asura
Master EffeX
Alby47
Obscene Symphony
Nallore
Kuro
Abstract Proxy
Stern Algorithm
