His holy sigil appears on his forehead.

Prince Lucas is about as cold as it gets. His rudeness is somewhat legendary among the royalty, and he famously walked away in the middle of a conversation with the princess of Rosaria, claiming he had been bored of the conversation. He's blunt and unapologetic, often throwing people off guard as he is usually seen as a stoic thing. He is quick to anger and quicker to snap at someone with a sardonic remark, and even those he is interested in aren't shielded from his remarks. He also constantly violates the idea of personal space, freely touching whoever he pleases, and has a contradictory charm to him when he does express an interest in someone. He's quite forward in that regard, his directness often working in his favor, though he's quick to cut people off once he's gotten what he wanted. Many wonder what's to become of him, but others have pointed out that despite outright burning bridges, people still come to him.

Born the second son to the twin heirs of the throne, Lucas was often left to his own devices. His childhood was uneventful in that regard and he was left to do as he pleased. His brother, Arthur, was the golden child and overachiever, so Lucas let himself indulge in his interests. As he got older, that included indulging him in whoever he pleased, as many were all too happy to throw themselves at his feet.

As they were close in age, he was often made to get along with Theodore. The two often spoke of history and scripture, though Lucas thought Theodore's desire for peace later on in life was the stupidest thing he had ever heard. Theodore nonetheless entertained his cousin and they debated often. His disappearance was a shock to everyone, and his death ended up rocking the family. Even if he was from a branch family, Theodore was still an Estoran, and there was much criticism laid down at the church. On hearing that the Templar was still employed, Lucas was in disbelief.

However, a few months later, he was plagued by dreams of a figure made of light and a creature of darkness. They kept him up for weeks until his sigil showed up on his forehead, and those dreams turned into a sudden flash during the day. It was so bad it resulted in cutting him off mid-sentence, and he ended up on the floor muttering incomprehensible words. He shut himself in the royal library for a week after that incident, pouring over old literature to make sense of his situation. He emerged and refused to speak a word of it to anyone, and packed up and went to Veradis to await his induction and Templar.

Lucas has been trained to use a longsword and a handgun. The idea of using either doesn't really cross his mind considering his status.

Her charge has placed it on her forehead. She was not amused by this.

So long as she keeps her mouth closed, Bianca can be mistaken for a cold if somewhat distant person. In truth she is a friendly person, always open for conversation and can talk to just about anyone. She has no issues offering her opinion on a matter, and is generally open minded, making her easy to talk to. She is a kind person at her core, always willing to guide and quick to play peacemaker. She will never let you down, even the idea of disappointing someone makes her always put in her total effort. As a result she is quick to help out those in need. Still, she puts a lot of pressure on herself even if she is told to take it easy.

Polite and usually keeping a calm head, she seems out of place among the Templars, though she transforms somewhat when a battle is to be had. She tunes out all her doubts and manages to keep her head in the game at all times. Despite her warm and gentle nature, she seems to avoid opening up to people even though she likes it when people confide in her. Her tendency to keep people at a distance is somewhat contradictory, often confusing people, and she has a lot of trouble expressing her emotions. Should she be crossed, she keeps her gentle demeanor, though becomes passive aggressive and is exceedingly firm when she needs to be. She also has a surprising cynical view on things.

The second daughter and overall fourth of a Sir Agustin, Bianca lived a typical life. Her family had served Duchess Manuela Santiago for years, her mother and sister working as maids while her brothers and father served as his knights. She followed in her father's footsteps and became a page at a young age, having the desire and talent to become a knight. She squired under Sir Benjamin until she was a knight herself and was placed in charge of the duchess' oldest son, Diego. Despite her young age, she took her job seriously, especially after a monster attack robbed the House of Santiago of Manuela and put Diego in charge as he had no sisters. He stepped into the role of duke flawlessly and together with his wife ensured the continuation of his house. After his mother's death, Diego approached Bianca and asked her to help him personally with his duties. While she felt she wasn't qualified, she did her best, often representing Diego in certain matters. At some point she felt more like a secretary rather than a knight, but convinced herself it would be temporary. As thanks, she was often invited to family dinners, sometimes with Diego alone.

After about six months, Agustin ended up developing early on-set dementia, and Diego assured Bianca that he would pay for the best care in exchange for her continued service. She agreed and was beyond grateful, but she noticed the invitations to dinner increased, and she was surprised when she would show up and Diego would dine with her alone. He often claimed his wife was ill, and despite not wanting to assume the worst, accepted it after she confirmed it with his wife that she hadn't been feeling well and got her blessing to accompany him instead. Eventually, the dinners stopped, and she was relieved. Unfortunately, it was followed by a massive scandal that exposed Diego's crime of money laundering. What was worse was that he found a way to throw Bianca under the bus by insinuating she had been trading favors in exchange for the care of her father. Why he thought to drag her down with him, she had no idea, but word spread like wildfire and she found herself having to defend her position from everyone. Eventually, the queen ordered for his assets to be seized in order to repay his debts, and Diego was stripped of his title.

Now wayward and aimless, Bianca had no idea what to do with herself. Her siblings were able to find work elsewhere to support themselves, but she was denied every time due to the scandal despite it being a lie. It left her dejected, and eventually she turned to the church to offer her services. She was welcomed, and despite knowing she did nothing wrong, asked for forgiveness. She ended up taking a wrong turn one day and bore witness to a training regimen led by Templar Irina. She was entranced by the passion and effort, admiring the Templar, and ended up submitting an application the same day. While working for the church for the rest of her life protecting a Scion wasn't her first choice, watching the Templars train had lit up a small spark in her. To her absolute shock, it went through, and she found herself being trained by the same Templar she saw that day. Granted, it was a grueling experience that seemed better from the outside in, but Irina had beat out any doubts about her desire to be a knight. After around four years of training, she became a Templar, ready to serve.

She has trained with a longsword since childhood and isn't a fan of pistols but has one at her side just in case. Her eyes will light up at the chance to use a shotgun, though.

On his back, between his shoulder blades.

On the surface, Tyler is far from the chivalric ideal. He carries himself with a blasé, devil-may-care attitude that speaks to either arrogance or laziness. He's competent when he deigns to act - as any Templar should be, though ideally this should be all the time - but his conduct leaves a bit to be desired and his outward displays of piety are lacking. He revels fully in the celebrity status he has, even if it's only leeched off the Scion he used to serve, and has been rumored to engage in vices completely unbecoming of a man of the Church. Still, he holds a tension in his frame that wasn't there before his infamous failure, and every set of eyes on his new charge has him coiled tight like a cobra ready to strike.

Truthfully, he holds a deep-seated anger - at Kaudus, at the world, at himself. He blames himself for his previous Scion's death, believes that, had he not been so lax, he could've prevented his disappearance despite the circumstances of it being completely out of his hands. The only reason he hasn't relinquished his knighthood in shame is the thought that the killers might still be out there, laughing at his failure. To that end, he's grown reckless, and now moves with something of a deathwish, believing that he will atone for his dishonor with either his own life or that of his Scion's killers.

The only thing he will abide less than allowing an enemy to live is allowing another Scion to come to harm, and he takes his charge deathly serious after graciously being allowed a second chance, even if he may not show it. Likewise, the casual irreverence Tyler shows to others does not extend to Scions, whether his own charge or others, seeing them as precious gifts from the Mother that need be cherished and protected, not babysat as has become the norm for Templars of this age.

Tyler's story did not begin glamorously. He had no storied pedigree, no family fortune to inherit; his father was an adulterous drunk and his mother suffered his neglect for the sake of her family. He was a troubled youth, one that misbehaved and got into fights, petulantly lashing out against a world he believed had wronged him by the circumstances of his birth. His salvation was found in the form of a kindly minister in his community who suggested he seek a new life in the Church if his current one was so intolerable. Tyler took him up on it.

But he was still young, and could not grasp what it meant to serve the Mother. He wanted to be cool, to be strong, to be a knight. So, Tyler was assigned as a page to a middling clergyman in Veradis. The work was tedious and boring, but the environment was certainly an improvement and, more importantly, he got to train with the squires sometimes. It was a relief when he reached squirehood himself and could cast aside such busywork to devote himself fully to more physical pursuits, though with his assignment to a true knight - an Estoran man by the name of Sir Robert Farrington - came more chores, to his chagrin. Sir Robert was a grueling taskmaster, one that shaped Tyler into a capable combatant but ensured there was no love lost between them, at least from Tyler's perspective.

In a way, Tyler felt cheated. Knighthood wasn't the chivalric ideal he'd imagined as a boy; he got to gallivant around the Estoran countryside at last, but it was dirty and terrifying, and he had to stand at a safe distance with a rifle in his hands and hope Sir Robert handled whatever beasts they'd been tasked to slay before something else leapt out of the woods to eat him. Sword drills consisted of him being smacked around until his bruises had bruises, never being allowed to feel success. Even the pitiful stipend he was allowed as a squire was denied to him, as he sent it home to his mother out of whatever lingering sense of filial obligation he possessed. It was the powerlessness of back home with all the danger of the frontier. Sir Robert, doubtlessly better at training soldiers than raising children, simply had the boy channel this frustration into his training.

By the time Tyler was knighted, he had been honed into a weapon as bitter as it was effective. Yet whenever he was pitted against other knights in friendly bouts, he could only begrudgingly give credit where it was due; Sir Robert had given him what he asked for. He was the powerful knight of his dreams at last. It made him cocky. When he was nominated for the position of Templar, it only made his head bigger. Duty and piety had no hold on him, Tyler wished only to relish in his success. He felt he deserved to relax and enjoy the luxuries of his new life at last after such an arduous path, and the task of babysitting a powerful figure would surely let him do just that. After all, what danger could befall a Scion?

When he was introduced to his new charge, however, he was captivated. The new Scion of Time, a relative of Estoran royalty by the name of Theodore Dainn Estora, was a charming young man with a natural magnetism that lent itself well to his position. They were introduced, went through all the pomp and ceremony, and then he reached down and touched the kneeling Tyler's back, as if willing an angel's wings to sprout then and there. In a way, they did; he took flight on the wings of time, elevating him to that ephemeral space beyond man but below the divine that Theodore occupied. He truly felt the call of the Mother there for the first time, he thinks.

The Scion was not the disciplinarian Tyler had grown accustomed to serving; he asked for little, and interested himself not in acts of war but in peaceful overtures that might prevent them. Had they not been peers, Theodore might've been the role model Tyler had sorely lacked in his life. He was good company, clearly meant for great things yet willing to let Tyler play at the fame and wealth he'd ever dreamed of as Theo pulled him into the whirl of his existence on a path to change the world for the better. Theo was a blinding star, and Tyler was content merely to be caught in his orbit; he would've followed him to the ends of the earth with only mild complaining.

Without him even realizing, it had made him dangerously complacent. Their shared story ended on an innocent trip; Theodore had wished to visit the previous Scion of Time's Templar, since retired, and dragged Tyler along on a trip through dreary Doumerc. Careless as he was, he entertained Theo's foolish idea to go on ahead, and despite assurances that Theo would most certainly be back in a half hour, the proposed time rolled around without a Scion in sight. Naturally, Tyler set out in search of him and, upon finding Theo's transport abandoned, called for a full contingent of knights to investigate. They never did find Theodore.

They assured Tyler that it wasn't his fault. That hurt far worse than any reprimand he'd ever received. He tried to bury his guilt by throwing himself into the search for their missing Scion, in cries for blood, in earnest pleas to unleash him upon the enemies of the Goddess like the sword of Time that he was. Given their proximity to the border, Tyler thought it obvious who the culprits were; Theo had wanted nothing but peace with Kaudus, yet those godless savages dared to spit in his face for it.

His grief came to a head months later, in the instant he felt his blessing fade. His friend and charge was no longer missing. He was dead. The only thing that stopped Tyler from marching across the border and cutting a swathe through every Kaudian he could find was the group of Church knights who stopped him and reminded him - violently - that he no longer held the borrowed power of the Goddess, and he'd be cutting no swaths through anything before dying a pointless death.

To make matters worse, he was never punished for it. People talked, of course, but the Commander saw his devotion to his Scion after Theo's disappearance as proof of his honor and not the guilty flailings of a failure. It was early in his career, and he was informed that he was to remain a Templar for a new Scion, in the event such a tragedy was attempted again. It was a kinder act of penance than he deserved, but it was his nonetheless.

Though Tyler is a competent marksman, the speed previously afforded to him by his Scion's blessing led to him favoring a Rodion mana saber in most engagements. Since Theo's presumed death and loss of his magic, Tyler has reverted to toting a semi-automatic carbine, regardless of how appropriate it might be for the situation, and a concealed handgun as a backup.

On his left palm.

Despite the impassive visage put up by the visored mage, Zach is quite warm and personable, believing that Church outreach should come from a person first and an envoy of the faith second. The Church has enough distant figures beyond the reach of the average person, he believes, and the strength of the clergy lies in their ability to connect with the laity on a personal level. In fact, Zach believes he should invest special effort into this task, to push past the image of a faceless monolith of the Church that his uniform tends to present him as.

Likewise, he has a strong sense of charity, and this general helpfulness spills over into nearly every aspect of his being; he's eager to please and ready to aid however he can. He believes no child of the Goddess should be made to suffer unduly, and he obediently follows the words of the Church in the belief that they are the guiding hand most capable of doing good. In short, he's a giant puppy.

Still, he is not so naive that he believes he can end all misery, painful as it is to admit. Even were he blessed to be a Scion, no elemental might in the world could approach the divine benevolence of the Mother's realm. So, like a medic triaging the injured, Zach merely tries to do the best he can with the resources he has. And if the resource happens to be a Scion, more power to him.

Some forests in the realm were simply not made for man; they were the domain of beasts, drunk on mana and fat with arcane ferocity they should not have. Man sought to tame them anyway, as was his nature. It was on this frontier in rural Doumerc that Zacharie Chaudoir was born. At the age of three, his family learned he was a mage. It was considered auspicious; though mages were hardly common in their little backwoods community, they were highly cherished, as they maintained the defenses that kept the monsters away and allowed everyone to continue their lives without fear. Such auspices were proven wrong when, at the age of seven, Zach's family learned he suffered from a degenerative eye disease. The Mother gaveth and the Mother tooketh away.

It made for a nerve-wracking childhood, at least from his family's perspective, as even competent men had to watch themselves out in the fields lest they fall prey to a stalking monster, let alone a half-blind child. Zach spent much of his time glued to his older brother's side, as it was the only way he was allowed out of the house. Officials from the Church visited the little village often, whether to investigate the latest monster attack or shore up the settlement's defenses or even just to provide succor to the families of the departed, and, brother in tow, Zach was always among those who would head out to greet them.

They often took pity on the boy, and through the Church he was given a magical education and medical care he'd never be able to access from a remote settlement otherwise. When he was fourteen, he left home to join the Church entirely. It was probably for the best; life on the frontier didn't suit a cripple, as dubiously as that title could be applied to Zach, and his magical talent would be far better honed in a more civilized locale. But in Zach's mind, this was not merely an arrangement of convenience. He did not consider himself unfortunate, not compared to others out there in the world or even in his hometown. If the Church could give to him so freely, he believed the Mother would want him to pass such generosity on to those who truly suffered.

Zach spent the remainder of his teens in training as a Church mage, honing his Goddess-given gifts to uplift and defend. No mere position in a city cathedral would do for him, he wanted to be on the edge of conflict, where misfortune struck the hardest, where people most needed a hero. He volunteered for public works projects and charity drives across Doumerc and beyond. The moment they slapped a magitech visor on his face and the world was no longer a haze, he felt as though he could face the world and prevail, even if the realities of aiding those in squalor fell short of his ambition.

He was content with this, until he witnessed a Scion in action for himself. A logistics issue in the Doumercène countryside led to delays in an infrastructure project Zach was involved in, the recovery effort of a gruesome attack by Kaudian radicals that ravaged the settlement. It seemed word had spread, as the Scion of Lightning herself made an appearance in the wake of the news of the delay. Rather than wait the days or even weeks it would take to muster enough mages to power the project, Marchioness Lucienne made up for their shortcomings singlehandedly, and committed her personal resources to the aid efforts besides.

It was there Zach realized he had simply not been dreaming big enough. The Scions were the hands of the Goddess on Gaia, and in their blessing was the closest earthly expression of Her benevolence. While he would surely never be among their number, he could walk as closely to them as possible. Guide their talents to more fruitful ends, even, given how some seemed content to laze about. So, he requested consideration for Templar candidacy.

He was certainly not the most standard applicant. Nevertheless, his magical aptitude spoke for itself, and he was nominally a knight of the Church by virtue of serving as a mage. The physical training he was subjected to after was certainly something new, but he did technically ask for this. By the time a position under a Scion had actually opened up, Zach had been honed into something Dame Irina called... passable. If he still had nightmares about being forced into sprints, that was between him and Incepta.

Zach favors his innate magic over any physical weapon, though he does carry a crystalline scepter as a casting implement that can be used to dole out blunt force trauma in a pinch.

Maya’s Holy Sigil appears on her eyes. While she is not the first Scion to present this way, this has been of interest to the Church as it has historically been the only known Sigil presentation to produce two symmetrical marks rather than one.

Maya is a fan favourite among the current Scions, and for good reason: in interviews, public appearances, and most notably on social media, her contemporary style, openness with media and bubbly attitude have made an otherwise distant and intimidating ecclesial figure approachable and relatable to the younger generation. There is no journalist or camera she turns away, and by striking a careful balance between zoomer fun, modern sophistication, and girl-next-door charm, the Scion of Gravity has become a widely appealing and entirely inoffensive public figure that just about anyone can look to and find something to identify with.

It’s really a shame that it’s all an act.

In private, those close to Maya know her to be high maintenance, stubborn, self-centered, manipulative, and prone to temper when things don’t go her way. She has a vindictive mean streak that the more pious of her friends would call her deadliest temptation, to which she often surrenders; when someone rubs her the wrong way, she just can’t help herself. Often unreadable and rarely saying what she means, she keeps those around her walking on eggshells - until they realize that her bark is usually worse than her bite. Fortunately for her, most retreat before they ever get that far.

Maya was born in one of Doumerc’s smaller cities, an ancient settlement called Rivière-de-Larme located on one bank of a wide river forming part of Doumerc’s historically contested border with Kaudus. One of the last remaining border settlements in Doumerc (after the rest were gradually abandoned in a diplomatic effort to ease tensions with Kaudus), tensions in Rivière-de-Larme often run high, and the settlement is closely monitored by the Doumercène military, a rare sight in the rest of the country. However, being situated on a vital trade route both out to sea and inland to Rodion, Doumerc has yet to concede the town to Kaudus’ posturing from across the river.

For Maya’s part, she was born into some privilege; while they had no claims to noble lineage, her family was fortunate as Rivière residents went. They owned a family business of some repute running cargo barges up and down the river, and while their contracts weren’t huge, they were consistent, and with hard work they made enough to live comfortably, a luxury not all in their town could afford.

Maya herself was a difficult child, prone to stubbornness and temper, but she performed well in school; so well, in fact, that by the time she finished high school, she had earned herself a scholarship studying physics at a university in the nearest city. It wasn’t ivy league - it was an open secret that one needed lofty connections to get into one of those - but a degree from any Doumerc university would all but guarantee Maya a life much easier than the one her parents had worked for, and they were elated.

Unfortunately, Maya’s scholarship worked more against her parents’ interests than in their favour. In her time away, Maya grew haughty, acquiring a taste for the sophistication and style of “big city” life and learning to look down upon the small-time border town and kitschy cargo business that raised her. Her summers home felt like prison, and even her advanced physics homework appealed to her more than helping out with the family business.

But books still needed balancing, and cargo still needed checking, so Maya was unable to escape helping her parents out on the barges. One interesting bonus of the business was that, as a cargo carrier, the Desrosiers company was one of very few civilian companies with authorization to cross the river into Kaudus. With foreign relations strained as they were, they never had Kaudian clients, but the passport was necessary to get through checkpoints and to secure some limited protection in case docking on Kaudian shores was necessary.

As it happened, one of the summer days that Maya’s father could drag her out to help with inventory was one such occasion, their barge suffering engine difficulties and a rudder failure that forced them to make landfall in Kaudus. An unscheduled landing in waters as well-traveled as the Larme would raise tensions anywhere, but a Doumercène ship in Kaudus doubly so; as such, tensions ran high as Maya, for once, stayed dutifully inside the bridge while her father attempted to explain the situation to the Kaudian authorities. However, while her father struggled to communicate in broken Kaudian, armed men from the shore boarded and began sweeping the ship.

Then physics rolled over, and they fell into the sky.

Things moved pretty quickly after that, and after narrowly avoiding several Kaudian attempts to kill her, Maya and her father were secured by the Doumercène military and shortly thereafter, taken under the care of the Church. It was determined after a short investigation that Maya had undergone a miracle and become the new Scion of Gravity, following the widely published death of her predecessor two months prior. Maya was 22 years old at the time.

It was jointly decided by the Church and Maya’s family (albeit strenuously objected to by Parliament) that, for her safety, Maya would leave Doumerc and reside in Veradis, at least for the time being. Maya, who had never been strongly religious and was loath to be told what to do, chafed under the Church’s tutelage at first, and to this day hasn’t abandoned her stubborn streak, but you will never hear her complain about the accommodations: The Holy City of Juniperus is as far a cry from backwater Rivière-de-Larme as one can get. On top of that, there is nowhere in the world where a Scion enjoys as much doting attention, and in the few years since inheriting her gift, Maya has become a darling of the media - maybe a little too chummy with them, if her bishop has anything to say about it.

In circumstances where she's been approved for blatant uses of Gravity magic, Maya uses a blade-backed custom hammer. Otherwise, she carries a concealed handgun on her person at all times.

It shines within upon his chest, burning ever brightly like his vigilance against evil.

Bright. If one were to describe Justinian in one word, it would be bright. His dispostion remains cheery no matter the circumstances, he always tries to lift the spirits of those around him, and always willing to be the butt of a joke to crack a smile on someone's face. Rather than wallow in what he has lost, Justianian lives every day like it might be his last and gives thanks to Incepta for every night it isn't. His piety is beyond the reproach of most, in all areas but one: He refuses to let himself be fully constrained in his use of his abilities when it comes to hunting down monsters.

And it is with this standpoint that the other factor of his personality comes into play, because much like the element he is imbued with, Justinian is infamously stubborn about things he has set his mind too. The wilfullness of his youth and a fierce independance have only catalyzed with his faith due to his belief that his awakening was Incepta decreeing that he should use his powers to save the helpless and so he often will bash heads with Templars, the church, sometimes even Her Grace High Cardinal Margaret herself.

With all due respect, of course.

The earth Scion's life before his awakening was. . . an unpleasant one. He was the son of a factory worker that spent all day in a failing factory to bring home scraps to a family of 4 with seemingly another on the way. His mother could barely pay him much attention, so he spent his early life with a great deal of independance that gave him a willful streak that his parents found equal parts exhausting and amusing. It was a rough life, but it was his and he was happy enough with it. The only regret he carried was lacking the ability to help his family rise from the poverty they found themselves in.

Unfortunately, this menial commoner's life came to a bloody end as a shadow fell over the small factory town. It started slowly, first with people's pets vanishing in the twilight hours and strange noises being heard in the dead of night. When people started to vanish, a call for help was sent to the local lord of the area. Justinian would not learn until much later that the Lord had known this danger was approaching his town, but the creature and its pack was a known danger that had even managed to take the lives of Templars in the past so they had decided that the loss of one or two commoners as had been the beast's pattern was a sacrifice he was more than willing to make. But the creature did not stop at one or two. More and more as the week progressed, people kept disappearing. Homes went quiet, the old factory deemed unsafe. And then, one day, the monster made it's final strike.

Justinian saw the first of the monsters on that day, masses of skittering legs and shining black carapaces bursting from the ground as he and his friends played in front of their building complex. Everything after that, however, was hazy and indistinct. He remembers screams, his father grabbing his arm and pulling him. . . somewhere. He couldn't remember where his mother was, or his sister of only 5 years. He could not remember when he and a few other kids had been huddled together in the backroom of the local church, his father looking at him with tears in his eyes and asking him to be brave and keep the younger ones safe. He can remember the banging. Even to this day, he remembers the skittering screech of talons on stone work, of heavy oak buckling and bending against the weight of something huge and savage. He still sees that door at night, in his dreams, bending and buckling and breathing like some great dragon about to unleash a torrent of death upon him.

He remembers praying to the Goddess, as clumsily as one can expect of a frightened child. A prayer not for himself, not for his family, but for the strength to protect them all. A prayer to give him some form of agency in this terrible nightmare. To take away this horrid helplessness that gripped him as he stepped infront of the other children, feeling a strange burning crawl through his body.

And he knows that Incepta answered.

When the Templars came a two days later to investigate the presence of a Scion, what they found left them both horrifed and speechless with awe. The town was covered in the corpses of man and monsters alike but rather than scavenging like the vermin they were, every monster had been frozen in a crystalline amber shell, somehow still alive within their prison. Justinian and the children he protected were found in that church basement, surrounded by a wave of the macabre crystal sculptures while Justianian just say there with a small baby cradled in his small arms. From beneath his frazzled blonde hair, the holy sign of the goddess shone with a dull amber glow from his right eye. The children had all been too scared to leave, wanting to wait for their parents to come and take them home, and the newly awakened Scion had sensed the state of things through the ground beneath their feat. He couldn't bring himself to break that hope to them.

In his first meeting with the Templars, Justinian's denied to follow his Templar rescuers until he was promised all of the children in his care were to come with him. He had refused to leave them in that mausoleum of a town, as they were his responsibility. His father had told him to take care of them, and he would not let them out of his sight until he was sure they'd be safe. It wasn't until the head templar gave his wor that he would finally relax, nearly fainting into the arms of the man. That was the last time that he ever let himself cry.

For the next year, Justinian responded little to any prompting outside of specifc questions or inquiries, he remained quiet, respectful, and rarely left his room. Whenever he spoke, his gaze never met that of who he was talking to, as if gazing somewhere miles away. The only thing that ever sparked any interest in him, strangely, was reading. It was the only request he ever made and it was quickly given in hopes of improving the young Scion's condition. He seemed especially fixated on the first Scion of Earth, Isidore Laurent, whom he spent hours reading about in every form he could find. Whenever he spoke, his gaze never met that of who he was talking to, as if gazing somewhere miles away. And before long, his birthday came around.

As he lay in bed, twelve years old watching the kids he had saved all come into his room with present for him, thinking about how they only reason any of them were here was because of his actions that day . . . a choice was made, bringing with it the first smile he'd had in a long time. He told his handler that he had finally felt ready to accept his place as a Scion, which was met with much joy and relief from all around who had about how this event would effect a personof such importance.

It was only the next morning that his handler, and all of Lorentia for that matter, would realize the true meaning of his words. The year had not been spent just idly processing his trauma and reading, but listening to the very earth beneath his feet. Feeling the heartbeat of the planet and letting it lead him to the places most active with creatures like those that had attacked his home. The vermin that existed only to ruin so many lives with their destructive desire for chaos, living outside of the natural order. As the sun broke, Justinian's small form was being broadcast live by flabbergasted villagers as he dragged out a wolf-like monster that had been terrorizing their livestock for weeks, the small girl it had been stalking held in his arms. One of several rescues he had made that evening and would continue to make for many years after.

Justinian swore on that day not only to never let himself feel that level of helplessness again, but to save every person he could reach from the unfair horrors of life. It was the decree given to him by the Goddess herself and he would fufill it, even if her voice on earth disagreed with him.

Justinian has taken the years to teach himself at least a passing familiarity
with a number of weapons like the spear, staff, sword, and even the bow. But when it comes to his favored weapon, that would simply be his own two hands. Often channeling the strength of the earth into his form, Justianian reinforces his own body to smash through obstacles that stand before him

Hollyhock is a gluttonous troublemaker. Her interests are typical for one raised in Rosaria: art, music, entertainment, and the like. Where she is unique is her love of food. She loves eating, she loves watching people eat, and she loves being watched eat.

For a noble, Hollyhock has little filter or delicacy. She says what's on her mind without caring about the consequences. While she does have the education to act the part as a refined noble, her true self tends to be a lot more vulgar and relaxed.

She has an overwhelming desire to not be chained down to anything. This has led to her habit of immediately wandering off the second nobody is looking at her.

While she has empathy and a general sense of duty because of her gift, she also doesn't believe she needs to be a pawn in the political games of the Rosarian court. This has left her at odds with her family who have been trying to reap the rewards of her Scionhood.

She has a fairly laissez-faire attitude towards the usage of a Scion's elemental magic. If questioned why, she'd respond by asking "if Incepta gave us hands, why would be need permission to grasp?"

Hollyhock is fairly pious. Despite this, she doesn't recognize the full authority of the church. To her, the church is an institution of mortals given power by common agreement. She doesn't consider herself divine by virtue of being a Scion, either. She was merely lucky--or unlucky--enough to have a blessing no different than the blessing of human inception.

When the previous Scion of wind passed, it was expected that one of her children would manifest as the next Scion. Watchful eyes focused on her kin that were involved in politics. It caused quite a stir when the next Scion appeared in her estranged grandson's family.

Hollyhock's family was never involved in the political sphere. While the name of Rosaria carried weight within nobility, it had a caveat: the name of Rosaria held power matrilineally. The second son of the third son of the previous Scion, while bearing the name, did not bear any power or responsibility. Only two generations down from the previous Scion, they were isolated to steward a small township.

Her memories of childhood are typical for a noble as they were marked with absence. Hollyhock's earliest memories are of her wet nurse and nannies, not of her mother's care. She could never forget the taste of the desserts her nannies would sneakily give her.

That changed on a particularly rainy day. A six year old Hollyhock, the third daughter, had split the clouds because her nanny wouldn't let her walk in the garden.

No longer was she the third daughter. No, now she was their golden child. She was now supposed to be the perfect Scion to bring honour and prestige to their family. Her upbringing became rigid. Gone were the lackadaisical days she spent with her nannies. Now she spent every day studying the skills befitting of a Scion without a moment's rest.

Her family quickly rose to prominence in Rosaria's court. Their meagre roles as nobles had grown. Every noble family wanted to bask in the prestige and influence that came with the historic title. The world wished to see the young Scion of wind. Media fame came immediately as she was toured around.

She received gifts, sure. But they were gifts from other families meant to arrange marriage and alliances. There certainly was more love that she received as the Scion than what she could remember as a young child. But this love was conditional and transactional. Hollyhock grew up with this understanding.

It was a shame for her family that Hollyhock wasn't a filial daughter. Instead, what they got was a troublemaker. Someone who was willing to climb out of the window and down trusses to avoid studying. A girl who would sneak into town to buy roasted skewers to eat with paupers. A girl that would leave in the middle of interviews because the lights had begun to bother her.

Hollyhock uses arrows that she can fling around using magic both elemental and unaspected. She doesn't have a bow, though.

Appears on her right shoulder, just above her prosthesis's anchor.

Most people would be surprised to find out Ionna is Rodion. Warm, friendly to a fault, easily excitable and perhaps a bit gullible, she entirely lacks the stereotypical frigidness of her homeland. Often the last to draw swords and the first to strike up conversations, even and sometimes especially with those who may not appear receptive to it.

The life of a Templar both excites and fascinates her, but she’s also had to temper her expectations somewhat—in a good way. Her father has always impressed upon her the necessity for the Church’s influence over the Scions, and how important it is they be kept in line for everyone’s safety. However, rather than come into the job expecting to struggle with whoever she’s assigned to, she would rather believe them to be reasonable people. After all, Scion or not, humans can learn from their mistakes, and avoid them, too. To her, no matter the conflict there’s almost always a peaceful solution to be found.

And if there isn’t…well, like her father, Ionna has no love for violence. But neither does she fear it.

It began, as many things do, with a demonstration of power.

On a cloudy dawn in 981, when the lakeside village of Vuzkymist was inextricably occupied by its Kaudian neighbors, a Scion arrived to liberate it. By noon nothing remained, not of the Kaudians, nor the village. They called it “The Wrath of Vuzkymist”, as if to imply the people, so incensed by their occupation, would have dutifully chosen to see their village destroyed, rather than surrendered to the enemy.

In the ruins of his birthplace, a Rodion scientist by the name of Sascha Rani lost his faith in the Scions. And the little syrota he had come to collect lost her home.

She had been orphaned long before The Wrath of Vuzkymist, and was brought to Sascha’s attention when he heard tell of a young ward of his hometown church overloading their older, mana-based technology. He had come down to see her for himself when the Kaudians invaded, and despite everything, he was not disappointed. His status and stability made the adoption easy; in a month’s time she had his name. Ionna Rani.

For a child, she recovered quickly. The attack did not leave her frightened and withdrawn, but rather, Ionna was boundlessly curious about the world, and especially other people. Living in a sizeable town not terribly far from Alvar, she enjoyed relative safety and comfort, though the Rani house was far from some lavish estate.

Sascha spent much of his time away at work, or holed up in his workshop, neck-deep in personal projects. Often, Ionna was left in the care of her uncle, a former knight named Dragomir, well-reputed for his service repelling Kaudians at the border. Age and injury saw him walking with a cane, but he found many excuses to draw his sword even in retirement. Dragomir was tall, broad, and vicious as a gnarled bear, and Sascha was…much softer. He was kindhearted, passive, and seemed quite averse to conflict—not qualities many would say suited a Rodion, especially not other Rodions. So, Dragomir often stood as champion to the family name, defending it and his brother from conflict and slander.

Ionna took much more after her father, which aggravated Dragomir to no end. When she was ten, he resolved to teach her swordplay, assuming she would be hardened in the crucible of combat. He prepared himself for the arduous task of instructing someone so seemingly disinterested, but as it turned out, that was the lesser challenge. Ionna took to the sword quite naturally, it was her levity that resisted. Every session, no matter how long or how battering, she smiled, and thanked him, and looked forward to the next.

Over the years this never changed. His last hope came when he finally convinced her to step into the ring, fight a few duels herself. It was for naught; Ionna spent an hour before the fight chatting with the young man who had purportedly impugned her father’s honor, and when it came time to draw blades, they seemed like lifelong friends. Dragomir watched in horror as Ionna bested her opponent, and what ought to have been considered a humiliating defeat at the hands of a teenager with no record, was instead played off with good-humored laughs, and kind wishes of farewell. She was utterly incorrigible. Worse, he was too proud to abandon her.

What time she didn’t spend training or socializing, she aided her father in his workshop. She wasn’t permitted anywhere near his official duties, but for his personal projects he often asked for her help directly—and she always, enthusiastically agreed. She had little technical expertise, and while well-educated, she was by no means qualified for advanced robotics. She did, however, provide an excellent source of energy.

Ionna was a mage by the most technical of terms. She had zero aptitude for spellcasting of any sort, even the lowliest of parlor tricks were beyond her capabilities. What she did have was an astoundingly large pool of mana. With practice, she no longer shorted every bit of arcane circuitry she engaged with, and could easily provide power to her father’s prototypes. He was fascinated with magitechnology, with the influence of human will on machines. As time went on, fewer of his inventions needed a raw outpouring of power, and instead required her to carefully manipulate her mana output. As with swordplay, this too became natural to her with time, and practice. She liked being useful to him, they spent more time together this way.

Near the end of her twentieth year, Doumerc successfully created the first artificial limb, and many of the Dominion’s governmental robotics sectors swerved to find ways to improve and weaponize the concept, Sascha’s included. He was away from home much more often, and for an entire year, Ionna saw worryingly little of her father.

Dragomir, for his part, did his best to distract her with duels and training—though he was growing too old to keep up with her. It was the first time he had seen her truly distraught. Sascha didn’t call, or write, and what little time he did spend at home he hardly acknowledged her. She became convinced that, somehow, she had upset him, and it was beyond Dragomir's power to change her mind. Even with an old soldier’s heart, he found the treatment cruel.

Eventually however, when Sascha did return in earnest, all it took was a smile for Ionna to light up again. She came to him like a loyal hound, all neglect forgotten. Sascha burned with new inspiration, and the two of them quickly fell back into habit. Dragomir did not see Ionna again for months.

When he did, her right arm was gone.

In its place was a crude prosthesis awash with veins of arcane circuitry. It moved a bit stiffly, but responded down to the slightest motors. Not biotechnology, Sascha asserted, but magitechnology, anchored not to the brain, but the will. Dragomir was aghast; Sascha had created an artificial limb, but he’d mutilated his own daughter to do it. He nearly reported it, partly for the ethical failings, and partly out of his own patriotism. Regardless of how it had been done, it had been done, and the Dominion ought to know about it so they could get ahead. But alas, twenty years away from war had softened him to his niece’s pleas, and ultimately he agreed to say nothing. For now.

Two more years passed, and Sascha’s magitech prosthetic evolved. A fine-tuning of mechanics combined with Ionna’s control over her own mana saw it functioning as naturally as her old arm, better even. With long sleeves and a glove, the difference was all but imperceptible.

The last time Dragomir saw her, she dueled with a blade Sascha had embedded into it. The way she moved, she might as well have been born that way. His congratulations were empty, and though he expressed his displeasure to Sascha in private, his brother brushed him off. So be it. Dragomir decided it was time the Dominion knew.

Too late. They were both gone the next day, and though the house was untouched, the workshop was empty. All of the prototypes, all of the research, vanished.

A week later, they reappeared on the news when Sascha was accepted into the Church’s order, where his secrets would no doubt be put to good use.

And Ionna, standing excitedly beside him, was now a Templar.

Technically speaking, Ionna always has a weapon on-hand. Her prosthetic arm is equipped with a retracting blade which, when deployed, can extend to a proper sword's length, or be shortened. Its single edge carries a slight curve and, while kept sharp, the arm's connection with her own mana allows her to ignite it with arcane energy, making it useful for defense against attacks both physical and magical.

On the palm of his right hand.

When it comes to appearing like your stereotypical aristocrat, Renault does his level best to fit the bill. Polite, well-spoken, and measured, he enjoys conversation and is always eager to meet new people. An avid reader with a taste for arcane academia, he isn’t a scholar but he has a passion for magic that’s stuck with him since childhood, and is always out to learn more than he knows, regardless of the subject.

Most see past the smile quickly, but coming from politics he’s used to distrust. Having supported Nadine Lucienne’s stances for most of his career, he makes no secret of his relative distaste for the Church’s conduct. He believes Incepta chose her Scions for a reason, seeing in them the potential to be more than pretty figureheads.

Renault never saw House Allard at its weakest, before Nadine Lucienne became Scion and rose it from the aristocratic squalor it wallowed in, but he has seen it at its most pathetic. When things were low, House Allard sprawled to survive; it sired bastards, it married down, it branched shallow, but wide. Falling out of relevance had the unique effect of liberating them from the expectations of a higher House, while simultaneously shaming them for it. In the distant reaches of the family, this shame turned inward, gnawing at each new generation that failed to rise above their station.

As a member of one of the House’s most far-flung branches, Renault’s prospects were meager. He and his sister Coralie grew up in a modest home in the Racine suburbs, unable to afford a place in the city’s heart. Coralie was a sickly girl who spent many of her early years bedridden, though she blossomed to be wildly sociable when she became a little healthier. Renault, however, was a bit of a recluse. He was magically gifted, but hopeless when it came to strangers. Often Coralie was his only company, and he spent many days in her room, reading and talking, and entertaining her with paltry spells when she couldn’t muster herself out of bed.

Eventually in their teenage years, the duty of their crumbling House fell upon them. Coralie, still withered but only in body, began to pursue a career in Doumercene politics. She was personable, diligent, and driven by an admiration for the savior of House Allard: Her Holiness Nadine Lucienne. She began to shadow the Scion of Lightning, and spent many high school summers interning with Nadine’s party. Even if her role was minor, it was a meaningful step to her.

Renault, for his part, was torn. His affinity for magic was growing, taking to the arcane like it was his mother tongue. He wrote runes as deftly as his own name, could speak spells with the linguistic precision of a scholar, and may very well have found himself with an early, full ride in one of Doumerc’s legendary universities. But, he didn’t want to abandon Coralie, who despite having grown popular by the time she graduated, was surrounded by people who manipulated and deceived for a living. It was too late for him to join her on the political stage, at least, not I the same capacity. He wanted to stay close.

At sixteen he found a low-level politician tangentially related to Madam Lucienne’s party in need of interns. Renault’s social skills had improved somewhat from his proximity to his sister, but he was still politically fresh, and he’d learned well that the Allard name, especially when it belonged to such an outlier, held little weight despite Nadine’s position. So he was surprised to be invited onboard so readily. Until he actually met the man.

He wasn’t a politician, more of a white collar grifter, and Renault had not been brought on because of his name, or initiative, but because of his magical aptitude. A good number of the interns were magically inclined, others weren’t kids at all, just adults who looked like they had no place in a noble’s court. Which made sense; none of them were going to be spending time there.

Renault learned his first lesson in politics: Dirt leaves stains—keep your hands clean.

Lobbying, bribery, blackmail and, occasionally, threats. Everything the grifter couldn’t do in the open, he delegated to the interns. Charms and illusions did wonders for minor-league espionage, and where backroom diplomacy failed, the more physically inclined of the bunch took charge. Renault broke more laws in a week than he had his whole life, which was not a high bar, but one that weighed on him nonetheless as those weeks turned to months.

Was this Coralie’s life, too? He couldn’t believe if it was; she was always smiling, always looking so eager towards tomorrow, and Renault hardly wanted to see the next moment. By happenstance, it turned out that one of the people his grifter had pressured was in opposition to Nadine. His folding made things easier on the whole party—and by extension, Coralie.

As can happen to anyone, the grifter’s luck eventually ran out. Whether he was outmaneuvered, or pushed the wrong person, or simply got sloppy, his crimes went public and his office collapsed. It was nothing short of divine luck that Renault wasn’t buried too, and had he been wiser, he might have taken the opportunity to start clean and refocus himself on his studies.

Not so.

He found another ambitious aristocrat, and this time when things went south he would make sure it wasn’t luck that spared him. Bringing along what remained of his former employer’s portfolio, Renault found himself a step above the other nameless, unpaid and unrecognized interns. When it came time to do his job, he remembered his lesson. He delegated, he used aliases, he kept his nose clean where he could and wore a mask where he couldn’t. Things moved slower, but he learned that was the proper way of things. Collapses like the grifter’s were rare, and were usually a sign that somewhere along the chain of diplomatic pressure, someone had failed to navigate gently enough. The people being blackmailed often wanted their secrets revealed as much as the people blackmailing them.

This went on for a few years more. Renault would flit between internships, proving himself both effective and discrete, and found the means to continue his arcane studies. When he graduated, there was no shortage of candidates eager to have him on their campaign teams. This moved him out of the shadows and onto the stage of political theater, where he was finally able to talk face to face with the sorts of people whose careers he had helped stabilized and unstabilize.

They were the worst.

It was all fake, which he’d known perfectly well already, but having to interact with them was different. They were all arrogant or obsequious, dishonest by default, and they all absolutely hated each other. Even people representing the same parties, the same teams, smiled and shook hands with daggers behind their backs.

Once again he couldn’t believe his sister thrived in a place like this. He searched, subtly, for dirt anyone might have had on her, anxious that she might have been as twisted as her company, but ultimately found nothing. In a way, that was worse. It would be devastating to learn she was never who he thought she was, but she was, and that made it all the more terrifying. Did she not know? Was Nadine’s party really some bastion of ethics? The Church certainly didn’t think so. How could someone like Coralie, who’d never worn a disingenuous smile in her life, survive in a place like this?

It turned out she couldn’t. After years of good health, her illness returned suddenly, fiercely, and in the end, fatally. She was gone in the day it took Renault to rush home. The fall was inexplicable—even the doctors were stunned. There’d been no warning, no symptoms, she had been happy and healthy one moment, and the next she’d collapsed in the middle of a donor social. There was a brief and half-hearted investigation that fizzled from disinterest as quickly as it started. She was chronic, after all, it was just nature. Who would want to waste their time?

Renault would.

Like Coralie’s death, Renault’s turn was sudden. His current employer’s campaign crumbled when it was revealed he’d been embezzling from his own charities for a decade. Tragic and disgusting, good riddance. Then the CEO of a premier magitech company was ousted when her affair with a competitor’s bookkeeper became public. A high-profile House was thrown into chaos when it came to light they’d bribed a judge to dismiss a lawsuit against one of their own. Scandal after scandal hit the public, and it didn’t stop at Doumerc. A Rodion general who poisoned his opponent before the duel that helped secured his position. A beloved Rosarian author who’d been using ghost writers his whole career. A Lorenzian art collector dealing in counterfeits. Every week, for months, someone had their skeletons thrown out of their closet and into the open daylight. When it did eventually end, a slew of once-public-faces had simply vanished, and Renault returned to the political stage with a smile on his face.

His involvement in the ordeal was an open secret; the result of his own efforts at finding the truth behind his sister’s death, culminating in a wanton divulgence of some of his portfolio. Some, he stressed giddily, but not all. He’d followed many threads, and found nothing, but was undeterred. Why rush?

Renault was now a campaign manager, freelance. Few sought out his services, wary or outright fearful, but as the years went by people learned to answer when he knocked. He came to enjoy the façades, the nervousness in their smiles, the clamminess in their handshakes. Everyone hated each other, yes, but it felt good to cut a swathe through the aristocracy’s tangled hierarchy. His name never made the nightly news, but when someone’s career imploded, the nobles' eyes turned to him, and he smiled back.

He kept clear of Nadine’s party, for the most part, though he did make efforts to cripple her opposition where he could. That they shared a family was already risk enough; she didn’t need someone with his reputation tied to her. Not when she so frequently butted heads with the Church.

Renault’s view of the High Cardinal and her ilk only soured over time. As his leads dried up, he found himself more and more believing the Church had been involved in Coralie’s death. He’d made no small number of enemies, but no one as powerful as the Mother’s eyes and hands. She was herself a small fish compared to Nadine, but she’d done a lot for the Scion’s party.

He was still undeterred, but knew that if he was going to take on the Church, he would need more than scandals. Sometimes there was no substitute for raw power. Renault was no soldier, he was a poor shot and had no talent for swordplay. What he did have was magic—but so did the Church, in much larger quantity and much stronger quality. So he turned his focus to the one thing they didn’t have. He went after the Curses.

It did not end well. He was caught attempting to unravel the arcane lock set by Duchess Flores, and was promptly thrown in prison with little process. The Doumercene aristocracy collectively exhaled, and life went on. For about a year.

Renault’s ascension to Scionhood was nothing less than divine comedy. How could the Mother choose someone like him? What purpose could he possibly serve in her designs? Renault didn’t know—he didn’t care. All that mattered to him was that he was free, and that now he had all the time, and power, he needed.

Renault isn't much for weapons. He's hopeless with a gun and hasn't held a sword for anything more than ceremony. If a confrontation is unavoidable and magic isn't an option, he keeps an old pair of knuckle dusters handy, a memento from his earliest days in politics.

The side of his neck, over a long-healed wound that had nearly taken his life.

The former soldier hides nothing in the way he interacts with others, speaking his thoughts plainly and succinctly without any attempt to obfuscate his intentions. When there is something pleasing to him, he is quick to acknowledge it and give praise, and similarly when he finds fault he will point it out and offer solutions and alternatives with no remorse. A no-nonsense man who believes its important to get to the core of an issue rather than beat around the bush, finding prompt actions and dealing with the consequences in the aftermath preferable to playing the social games that royalty and silver-tongued people play.

Despite this, he believes that following hierarchy to be important, the existence of order being the difference between people and savages, willing to hold his tongue when it is above his station to speak out. To Theobald, following the rules laid out by civilization are his way of keeping himself in check, self-aware of the fact that he isn't fit for peacetime and must forcibly acclimate himself to a conflict-free environment. Left to his own devices, he would indulge in his own desires with no regard for how they may seem to others, so it is with rigid structure that he suppresses himself every waking moment to act as a functioning member of society.

As a child, Theobald had grown up on the war stories that reached his small village, a forgotten corner of the Veradis where his father had settled to quietly build a family after the fabled war of 962. Helping with farm work in the mornings, and instilled with the virtues and teachings of the goddess by his mother during the afternoons, it was in the dead of night by his bedside that the young Theobald had his head filled with tales of grandeur. How his father had seen the legendary hero, Commander Fyodor in action, led into battle with a fervor that could only be described as the goddess' favor as the enemies of the continent were beaten into submission. Given those visions of grandeur every night, it was no wonder that as the boy became a young man, he set his sights on the Commander's kingdom of Rodion after he completed his pilgrimage across Veradis. He wanted to become a great a hero as the one he heard so much about as a child, and though his family thought it ridiculous for a commoner to reach for such heights, the emboldened teen listened to his heart rather than his head as he left the quiet life behind.

He was but fifteen when he first stepped upon Rodion soil, the frigid wasteland's greeting nearly stopping his journey at its first step. Entering the military under an age three years older than he actually was, Theobald was one of the many fresh cadets sent to support the Rosaria-Lanvaldear campaign. A cruel three years that taught the boy turned man how ill prepared he was for his dreams. Spending most of his time struggling to keep up with his peers as a mere farmboy with no formal training, by the time the war ended and he was returned to the capital city of Alvar, Theobald had nearly died dozens of times over with nothing to show for it. During one of his days in the city, painstakingly rethinking his decision to leave his homeland for a goal that seemed to be a pipedream, he learned of the country's national bloodsport, the arena. Rather than take additional training of the military, which he believed would keep him from building a legend as great as Commander Fyodor, he instead applied himself as an arena fighter despite the greater risk of harm to himself. Naturally taller than many his age, even as just a fresh eighteen year old the arena organizers thought highly of the would-be-fighter.

His time in the gladiatorial spotlight did not come easy, facing hardships unlike anything else he faced during the war. Expecting that his natural physique would let him overcome his lack of experience, the arena was his harsh lesson that strength wasn't everything, beaten left and right by every fighter under the sun. Seen as a laughing stock, he gained the moniker of "The Largest Loser", his losing streak as large as his body as he was forced to learn how to fight through trial by fire. But with each loss, his knowledge grew, with each wound he suffered he understood how to fight just a little bit more, eventually overcoming the wall between himself and the other fighters with a fighting style that took every failure as a learning experience. By the time he left the arena at the ripe age of thirty, satisfied with his growth and ready to build his legend, he had grown past his old moniker and became a fighter that was known in the arena as a beast that lacked the fear of death.

When he rejoined the military, Theobald quickly climbed the ranks, passing each rung with flying colors as his previous experiences colored the way he treated engagements with an unorthodox mix of arena combat and military training. By thirty-one he had gained his first medal, by thirty-three he reached a leadership position with troops under his command and led frequent missions to cull the monster population, and at thirty-four he was given a place at the Kaudus-Rodion warfront to fight in the constant war against the opposing empire. And by thirty-six, his name finally started to make waves in the military, the stories of a commanding officer who led his men with a ferocity of a dragon beginning for form amongst his fellow soldiers. Entrenched in war and only the echoes of a dream keeping his spirit alive, it was almost certain that he would be regarded as a prominent figure in the war effort if he were to continue his string of successful tours.

But on the eve of the final day of 997, his military achievements came to a sudden halt as he breathed out an all-consuming gout of flame during a heated battle on the war front that consumed both enemy and friendlies alike, saving him from a situation that could've cost the soldier his life but drawing undue attention to his battalion. Immediately, he was recalled from the battlefield, his military rank revoked as the church took him under their wing, revered as the newly exalted Scion of Fire rather than the esteemed commander he wished to be known as. Had it not been for his upbringing in Veradis, perhaps the former officer would’ve pushed more against his sudden upheaval from everything he knew.

Theobald, however, wisened by his years of constant strife, understood the need to follow orders, and allowed himself to be subjected to the torture that was leaving a nearly achieved dream in the dirt. It was the belief that he was simply changing his superior officers from the Rodion military to the church’s leadership that kept him sane, treating his confinement as simply waiting for future orders rather than a complete lack of military advancement. It is difficult to ignore ingrained habits, however, and more often than not acts as a headache for the clergy and his Templar whenever he instinctively attempts to return to the battlefield whenever news of conflict reaches his ears.

Seeking versatility for his partner in combat rather than overwhelming force, Theobald's weapon of choice is a hybrid between a firearm and a longsword, a gunblade that utilizes the explosive force of the gun barrel for both recoil-enhanced blows and mid-ranged engagements. Even without it, however, his bare hands are weapons in of themselves should he find himself disarmed.

Dom bears the holy sigil, the mark of the goddess on the back of her left shoulder.

Quiet, introspective, and with a head full of metal, Dom is a young woman caught in a strong current that she has found herself utterly unprepared for and that she is struggling to navigate. She is no blue-blooded aristocrat raised to inherit a position of power and full of grace. She is no wealthy merchant's daughter steeped in privilege and carrying the knowledge of an upper-class education. She is no brilliant socialite poised to take over the world with charm alone. She is no hero, no great warrior or powerful mage threatening reality.

Dom would say she that she was, still is, a nobody, another busy worker bee. Once she toiled away in the shipyards of Lorenzia, earning a a days worth of wages, and trying to keep tight deadlines. And now she works for the people of Gaia, for the Church, and most importantly for the Goddess. An artisan, of the decidedly industrial sort, Dom is hardworking. She's kind. And she is the right person for the job if it comes to building a ship. She could be the right person for the job of Scion. She hopes. Not all the stories are about impressive and mighty figures, surely sometimes the world just needs a commoner like her?

Dutifully religious, Dom is an orthodox believer, steeped in the traditions, venerations, and superstitions of old. Few would accuse her of being a great theologian or particularly inspired when it comes to matters of faith, but she is no fool, she simply prefers not to ask difficult questions. She is unwaveringly obedient to her religious advisors, particularly the templar assigned to her.

Despite being grateful and incredibly honored that she has been chosen by the goddess as the scion of metal, Dom cannot help but feel more than a little overwhelmed by her new station. She is anxious to please. Desperate to do the right thing. And terrified of making a mistake. Under pressure, chiefly when acting in her capacity as scion, she feels great doubts and is painfully unsure of herself. In such moments, to her own great shame, she finds herself wishing for her old, simpler life.

Still, Dom is not one to give up. She holds to the view that her own feelings are not important. She feels that the dark fears that assail her must be faced with an open heart. And she believes, she wants to believe, that it is her duty as a Scion to overcome the challenges placed before her.

Dom was born in Pogona, a bustling coastal city in Lorenzia, known as the Shipyard of Estora.

The oldest child in a struggling artisan family, Dom inherited a long legacy of labor claimed by untold generations of shipbuilders. Her ancestors, near and far, were artificers said to have built the ships that sailed across the world since before the age of sail.

Times had changed by her birth, her family had fallen on hard times, and Dom grew up in a household on the verge of constant financial ruin. It was only through the largess of a wealthy Lorenzian merchant, Madame Agnelli, that Dom reviewed an education. Among the other impoverished children of the docks, she learned reading, writing, and her numbers.

Guided by her grandmother, a wizened artificer, Dom was taught simple, utilitarian magic, the sort of pragmatic spellcasting vital to shaping metal. She started small, bending small bits of metal, mere trinkets. She progressed to smashing respectably sized pieces of metal into bigger pieces of metal and then what could pass as vaguely useful shapes.

In her eighth year, she was apprenticed to a friend of her father, and sent to live in his small workshop. There she flourished under his kind tutelage and after years of hard work proudly attained the rank of journeyman shipwright. Encouraged by her relatives, she joined the metalworking guild, Mythril, led by Ilya Nicolov.

Leaving behind her childhood, she found her teenage years and early adulthood to be pleasant. She grew into her form, her hands became nimble and strong. She relished her work. She held no great aspirations. Simply to earn enough money and approval to be received in the guild as a master craftsman. Her dream was to one day rise to the lofty position of chief shipwright of a reputable shipyard. She wanted to build great ships that would sail the seas. And then she would retire to enjoy the pension due to a senior member of the guild. Her humble plans, her lazy daydreams about her future were dashed by an unexpected event far beyond her control. She had heard, of course, of the regretful passing of the Scion of Metal, but like most she did not trouble herself with such great matters.

Dom had more pressing concerns to occupy herself with. She had a ship to finish building. The first in a new line of high speed transport ships that were to be powered elusively by mana. A ship so novel that the Doumercians had forcefully insisted on providing their own engineers to ensure that the Lorenzian workers did not skimp on the quality of their work. A new, horrible deadline loomed over Dom and her small crew. She could feel the master shipwright breathing down on her neck at every moment. The shipyard had no desire to pay the hefty late fees the Doumercian lawyer had skillfully woven into the contract that owners had signed. And so she pressed on.

Disaster struck on the third day of the sea trials, when a bank of experimental mana batteries, installed by the Doumercian engineers exploded without warning. The shattered metal should have cut her to ribbons, should have left her nothing more than an ugly scattering of red paste and unrecognizable pieces on the engine room floor. Instead the metal fragments reformed in front of her, forming a half sphere that shielded her from the metal and flames that hurtled across the compartment.

Dom emerged unscathed. She didn't understand it. She knew she shouldn't have survived, but she was live, somehow, improbably she was live. Trying to find any other survivors she did not notice the mark on her shoulder. How could she? It was one of her subordinates that spotted it. Mistaking the still glowing symbol for flames, he half drowned her with a torrent of water before he realized his mistake.

Accompanied by the few survivors and a retinue of esteemed shipwrights, Dom journeyed to the nearby Cathedral of Sargosia to seek answers. There a priestess examined her and solemnly declared that Dom's survival was no lucky accident and no strange twist of fate. No, the priestess confidently declared, it was the Goddess herself that had blessed Dominika Kovač Rebula and who had mercifully saved her with her own hands. In a loud ringing voice, she proclaimed that Dominika was the new Scion of Metal. Honored beyond words, Dom nonetheless felt her heart lurch with a sudden pang of fear at the woman's words, she kneeled . Hours and days passed in a whirlwind of activity and religious fervor. She received a visit from the High Cardinal. She met the templar she soon learned had been assigned to protect her. And she was initiated in the mysteries and knowledge of the Goddess required from a Scion. There was much to learn. There were manners and social skills to master in record time, a difficult task even with the help of several stern matrons. There were functions to attend, more functions than Dom cared to imagine. There were rituals to observe, rites to perform, and media to talk to. And there was more to do still.

Months passed quickly and Dom found her life much changed for the better. She exchanged an old name for a new one, leaving her paternal surname Rebula behind, taking instead the celebrated name of her adoptive father, the Baron Giovanni Pugnatelli, a sharp man keen to cement his legacy by ensuring that the people of Lorenzia did not lose claim to their scion. She joined her new father in Ornell, residing with him in his lavish manor. She was presented with fine clothes. She was given free reign to purchase whatever materials she desired. She was handed the keys to a large workshop, her own workshop, full of excellent tools, and staffed by a steadfast assistant. And she never had to go to bed hungry.

For all the joys of her new existence, Dom found herself full of doubt. She would not have dreamed of questioning the Goddess. She would not presume to dare to challenge the Incepta’s wisdom. Still, by her own measure, Dom viewed herself as an odd choice for a Scion. Wracked by anxiety, she has buried her fears in her metal work, fighting sleep consumed by new fears of failing to live up to the grand stories she has heard of her saintly predecessors.

Finding herself a poor tool for the Goddess, Dom wishes only to do what she can, the small good she can truly accomplish, paltry as such feats might be.

Dom carries a corrosion resistant and weatherproofed multi-tool on her person that she could conceivably use as a weapon. However, at the urging of her templar, she has also begun to carry a revolver chambered in a large caliber. Lacking any particular firearms training, Dom's chief strategy in combat is simply to drive off any attackers with a series of ear-shattering bangs, aiming and hitting is for templars.

On the cheek

Sara is defined by the phrase 'hidden strength'. Initially, she appears quiet and demure, her time as a teacher at the orphanage having taught her patience and how to be gentle. But the cruelty she has seen living on the streets, mixed with the teachings of the church and what little of her homeland's tradition that she was able to glean from her mother have created within her a hard and decisive sense of justice. Though zealous, she is also curious and hungry for knowledge. As someone who never belonged, her heart questions and seeks answers. She finds comfort in scripture and devotion but seeks deeper truths that some might consider heretical, so she keeps these thoughts to herself. Though she has not had access to the best education, many have underestimated her intelligence due to preconceived notions of her 'people and culture'.

Sara's mother, Aliya, was seduced and trafficked from the Kaudus Empire into indentured servitude in Lorenzia by someone who she claimed to her dying breath was a noble, a noble who promised her a new life full of luxuries. Aliya even claimed several times that Sara's father was coming to visit, though he always met her mother behind closed doors, so Sara was never able to catch a glimpse of him. Aliya worked ahrd to support herself and her daughter, and implored Sara to focus on her education, ingraining in the child the fact that education was the only real means of social mobility for people like them. Eventually, Aliya took ill and passed quickly, and Sara registered herself at an orphanage that was run by the church.

A large girl for her age, Sara found herself defending her fellow orphans from bullies, and as she grew older, this naturally led to her taking on a caretaker role for the younger children, as the orphanage was chronically understaffed. Since the orphanage was attached to the church, Sara simply followed the current trajectory of her life, and became a devotee of the church, cleaning, cooking, and doing laundry, while also becoming a teacher at the orphanage in order to support herself once she had surpassed the age that the orphanage was legally allowed to take care of her. This left her with little to no time to pursue higher education, and she doubted that she would ever save up enough to enroll into a Doumerc university, and even if she did, she knew the quality of her inner-city education was lacking. Ultimately, Sara was content serving the church and taking care of orphans like herself, perhaps she could give them the opportunities that seemed out of her reach.

One day, as a young adult, Sara saw a noble picking on a commoner, and as the noble's wrath escalated to violence, Sara stepped in to stop him. Enraged at having been interrupted, the noble pulled out his blade. The commoner that Sara was defending happened to be pushing a cart full of supplies, and Sara grabbed from it a length of chain with which to defend herself from the noble's cold steel. Underestimating her prowess, the noble was disarmed, at which point, Sara wrapped the chain around her fist and soundly beat the noble. A passing knight witnessed the incident and investigated the issue, ultimately siding with Sara and chastising the noble. Despite her age, the knight saw her late-blooming talent, and after learning that she was a devotee of the church, invited her to become a page. Sara accepted, and throughout her training, demonstrated exemplary loyalty, devotion, single-minded dedication, strength that belied her appearance, a softness where mercy was concerned, and a hardness where justice was required. After becoming a knight, Sara was assigned to wilderness patrol, which became a unique learning opportunity for her, having lived in the city her whole life. Sara earned a reputation for ferocity, donning heavy armor in order to take the full brunt of a charging monster's assault and using chains to subdue the creature, allowing her comrades an easier time to take it down. When asked how she learned to wrangle such unpredictable and dangerous creatures, Sara would joke that she had been a teacher. After a few years of proving her mettle in the wilds, the knight who had recruited her recommended her to become a templar, and soon after she was assigned to the Scion of Fire, Nikolai Gaumond.

As a templar, Sara became celebrity-adjacent, and a celebrity in her own right. The attention was new to her, but neither did she run from it, nor was she swayed by it. Throughout public appearances, Sara maintained professionalism and modesty, reminding herself and others that her fame came only due to her proximity to Nikolai, who was the real 'star of the show'. However, the noble she had thrashed so many years ago recognized her on television and sought to ruin her. Digging into her past, he discovered that Sara was the bastard daughter of a Kaudian mother and maliciously spread this information. When confronted about it, though Sara held no loyalty to Kaudus, she did not deny her heritage, believing that truth and honesty were virtues. Fortunately, Nikolai trusted her, as did Commander Fyodor, and Sara was able to keep her position, though public appearances and social functions became colder and more hostile for her. Eventually, Nikolai passed from age, and Sara was put on standby until the next Scion of Fire was discovered. This didn't take long, though the news that the miracle had occurred at the Kaudian front filled Sara with misgivings.

Though from a shaky and uncertain background, Sara has gone through life one step at a time, allowing the fate that Incepta has ordained for her to guide her. She seemingly never questioned the events that pushed her through life, taking everything in stride. However, it is not so much that she never questioned it, only that wherever she was and whatever she was doing, there was always something new to learn, and she was always content with that. As a Templar, she would be closest to the nearest thing to divinity, a post that satisfied both her zeal and her curiosity.

Gauntlets and a chain.

The sigil appears on the back of his left hand.

Kasper is a polite and remarkably charming young man. He is friendly, well-spoken, and he has a strong idealistic streak. It's also clear that he's a person with a vivid mental life. He is obviously educated in a general sense, and he's aware of the customs of nobility. But there are some subjects where it seems that he knows just about everything. He gets fired up in discussions about history and religion, for example, and he isn't afraid of discussing his personal theories, which are sometimes surprising. Kasper has a genuine and deep-seated piety, though this religious feeling seems to come from a personal relationship with the goddess and the writings about her. He thinks that the teachings are really about purifying the soul and becoming someone that the Mother would be proud of. He performs religious functions for the church without missing a beat, but he isn't an exacting dogmatist, and he rarely refers to the statements of the high cardinal in religious conversations.

The Scion of Shadow has spent most of his life in noble mansions and university halls. And while he is immensely knowledgeable, he isn't always down to earth, or even particularly aware of the more pedestrian dangers that he might encounter. Thankfully his templars are there to help him. He also seems to eschew modern technology in favor of antiquity. He has a phone, but he rarely uses it, and he doesn't understand much about the other technological marvels of his age. This, along with his piety and his literary mode of speaking, makes him seem like a extraordinarily anachronistic personality at times. It can be both a good and a bad thing. He is sometimes impractical, but most people are drawn to his romantic sentiments. His unshakeable composure really helps this perception. Having practiced to perform since an early age, his confidence doesn't waver even in the most awkward moments.

His passion for the ancient goes quite far. He's become a very respectable mage, but he often uses complicated arcane magics, when a more modern, streamlined spell would have sufficed. He claims that it's because he's actually more familiar with these older variants due to his research in recreating them. He knows all the classic works of literature, but he rarely has time to read something new off the shelf.

The scion of shadow was born to the Mirandolas, a minor noble family of Rosaria. He was provided with a thorough education, and given every advantage to develop his creative potential. Many of his family members had received acclaim in the arts, and it was expected that he too would become an artist or a musician. The young boy excelled in his studies, and he required more and more advanced tutors to continue his learning. He was especially attracted to history and literature. He would often while away his free time playing in the courtyard, acting out stories from legends and myths.

The Mirandola's mansion was a lively place, often host to grand parties for the region's nobility. The young Kasper was brought out during these events, in his finest clothes, to help entertain. Mostly he would just be paraded around and introduced to the other families. His parents would punish him harshly for any missteps of social etiquette, so he quickly developed a perfect politeness. Occasionally his involvement in the celebrations would take a more focused direction. He would be made to play songs on his flute in front of the small audience, or at other times he would recite poetry from an author that was favored by the honored guest. There was a lot to learn at these events, but probably the most important things were the connections he made. He became known to just about every family in Rosaria that was worth their title.

Just as often, however, the party would be held at some other villa, and his parents would travel out to enjoy them, leaving Kasper at home. They lived busy lives between the responsibilities attached to nobility and the extravagant social lives they pursued. Not to mention that his father still wanted to maintain some creative output as a novelist. And so there wasn't a huge amount of time for close, familial relations between them all. When he was a child, Kasper resented their relative absence, and he felt upset at the perceived neglect. But in time he became so used to it that he preferred the company of his tutors and servants for the most part.

As he got into his teens, his father and mother continually pressured him to start making something. He wasn't entirely opposed to the task, and he didn't want to disappoint them, so he started working on a poem. He put tremendous effort into it, struggling even with the finer details. Sometimes it was hard to sleep at night because he could not stop thinking about what to do with the story. But there was a certain satisfaction even in the trials of it. When he was fifteen, he published his first poem, called Elis and Cynthia. It was a few hundred lines long, and it re-imagined an ancient story about a woman, representing the Moon, and her love for a mortal man. The man was famously placed into an unending sleep by the curse of a monster. But Kasper's version had Cynthia using her powers to enter into his dreams, so that they didn't have to remain apart. It sold fairly well, and pleased his family.

The poem ended up being one of the only things that was published under his real name. Because later that year, a miracle came upon him. Kasper was lounging in the courtyard where he'd always played, and he was daydreaming about what next he would write. He became entirely rapt in imagination that day, thinking of a tempestuous sea and a great serpentine monster. So abstracted from reality was he, that he didn't even notice the sky above him darkening, and an actual serpent swirling down from above. A maidservant happened to detect the commotion from the window, and realized the the young master was in terrible danger. A few minutes later a guard burst into the courtyard, with the woman close behind. They called for Kasper to run, but he hardly took notice of them. So the guard brandished his sword and sliced into the monster again and again, until it fell to pieces. But when the body hit the ground, it burst into small, inky clouds - and it quickly dissipated. "That's it!" Kasper suddenly said, finding the end to his scene, and he rose to his feet. And in that moment the low clouds, too, dispersed. Only because of the bewildered expressions of the nearby pair did he realize that anything was wrong at all.

Kasper was amazed to hear the story told, but his family was understandably horrified. They brought in an expert from the church to advise them, and they quickly discovered the holy sigil that had appeared on their son's left hand. They had nothing to fear, the priest said. In fact, this was the greatest possible blessing. The Goddess had chosen Kasper to become the next Scion of Shadow. The serpent and the clouds from before were his own creations. Kasper was able to confirm this account, and he told the others that the things they'd seen were indeed the products of his imagination.

And so his, overnight, his status outstripped the rest of his family combined. He was assigned a templar, and he had many long talks with the members of the clergy, where he had his responsibilities and duties explained to him. It wasn't just work, however, a whole world of opportunity had opened up to him because of the blessing. He could go anywhere in the kingdom that he pleased, and he would be honored by all.

At first he thought to remain in Rosaria as he always had. But with so much power in his hands, things were bound to change. He wasn't particularly close to his family to begin with, but now that he had become a Scion, he naturally became a bit more arrogant and demanding. Their lifestyle quickly began to chafe at him, and he determined to move elsewhere - at least for a time. After some careful thinking, he decided to move to Doumerc to continue pursuing his studies. He still had a keen interest in history and literature, but now he had new interests to pursue in magic and religion.

Doumerc was, of course, happy to accept the Scion of Shadow. He discovered that his element was revered very highly there, because the first Scion of Shadow was a great scholar and philosopher. Kasper used his influence to gain easy access to the famous colleges and institutions in the region. He received the best teaching available, and he was permitted to get in on serious research projects that he could never have dreamed of joining without his new privileged status. He was able to meet with some of the greatest minds in his fields of interest, and academics of all sorts started coming to him. His mailbox began to literally overflow with offers and requests from universities and institutions. His name started being listed in several research papers as a contributor, and, eventually, as co-author. And while he didn't always get along with the seasoned, tenured men around him, he did learn an immense amount from them.

It took him more than a year just to adjust to his new life in Doumerc, and the great change of pace he had experienced. Due to all the study and exposure to research, he was genuinely becoming pretty knowledgeable about certain things. His love of history, religion, and magic had only grown. But there was still a stirring of discontent in his heart. For most of his life, he had been expected to become an artist. And he still remembered the thrill of composing his first poem. He still wanted to create. And so he started writing again in the evenings - stretching his thoughts and fantasies out into hundreds of stylized words. But his pen hand would freeze up every time he thought of the bishops reviewing his work, or of it being read by his contemporaries at the university. It would hurt his image too badly to publish his new work as it was. And yet, the work would be too mangled if he tried to prune all the controversy from it. It just wasn't possible to publish as Kasper Mirandola anymore. And so, if his work was going to see the light of day at all, he would have to use a new name.

Later that year, 'Arthur Redcrosse' entered the literary scene with his first poem. It was a simple little piece about a pious knight escorting a princess through the countryside, fighting off monsters and dealing with the challenges of living in the wilderness. It was simple, but the impact of the language was powerful. And everything about the poem seemed to be symbolically charged in one way or another. It wasn't just about the knight and the princess of some indeterminate time past; it was also about the modern day, about religion and nobility in the abstract. It was challenging at times, but it wasn't impious. The poem turned out to be a huge success. Kasper had sent the piece in secret to a go-between in Rosaria - a childhood friend, and had him publish the piece under the pseudonym. He was rather pleased with the result. He was able to reach the hearts of many in the kingdom with his writing, but he didn't have to carry that reputation to work with him into the university or the church. It seemed like the best he could hope for. And so all of his future writings would be published under the name 'Arthur Redcrosse'. His main focus was still research, but he was able to put out one or two new poems a year. Most every one became a hit, in time. As the fame of this author grew, it was realized that no man named "Arthur" could be found who was responsible for the popular writings. Some people began to speculate about the true identity of the author, using obscure details from the poems and alleged cryptograms therein to propose new candidates. But none of these theories is yet considered particularly likely. It isn't impossible that someone could put the puzzle together, but very few people know that Kasper is the true author. Even his own templars are unaware of that fact.

The years rolled on, and Kasper Mirandola became increasingly accomplished as a historian, and as a mage. He was especially interested in the oldest religious and magical documents that he could get a hold of. He established a small group of like-minded mages that worked to recover ancient spells. The general wisdom was that ancient magics were more powerful. Thus far, he was finding that to be true. They were quite powerful, but also more complex, more mana intensive, and not always very practical. The church generally discouraged the use of magic for scions, but he was afforded some leeway due to his role as the Scion of Shadow. The opportunities for progress that his magical research provided were just too great to ignore. And he was endlessly fascinated by the gift he had received. He couldn't stop himself from trying to find out what it was capable of. The templars who oversaw him wouldn't entirely approve of all of his experiments, so he would give them the slip from time to time. They were vigilant, but it was very hard to keep track of Kasper, simply due to the nature of his element. He could slip into the shadows and escape notice, if he wished -- or he could use the shadows to conjure an image of himself, which the templars would keep watch of while the real him was elsewhere. That was a trick they particularly hated. But after some strongly worded notices from the church, Kasper realized that he was being irresponsible. And not wanting to endanger his position, he has kept his solo escapades to a minimum lately - only really going out on his own to make arrangements to publish his poems.

His preferred weapon is a silver straight sword, with which he is quite skilled. He also carries a small knife for general purpose use; it is easily concealable. He isn't particularly fond of firearms, and he isn't the type to rush headlong into battle, if it can be helped. He is good with magic, though. Especially if he is given license to make use of his blessing.

Much to his chagrin, Jannick's minor sigil was placed over his heart.

It is outwardly apparent that Jannick does not want to be here. He held it together well enough to get through his Templar training, but every day that passes is a day that it gets a little bit harder to pretend that his Blessing is the greatest gift on earth. He rolls his eyes in interviews, he smokes inside, he even refers to his Scion as “Holiness” - and sometimes just uses her given name. His patience grows thinner by the day, and his charge’s escape artist tendencies do nothing to alleviate his recurring headaches. He is a man of many words once you get him talking, but these days, very few of them are likely to be good.

The one thing he doesn’t scrimp on, however, is vigilance. Jannick may not take the vaunted positions of Scion and Templar very seriously, but he does appreciate his duty: keeping people safe. Annoying or not, his charge is as worthy of protection as anyone, and his head is always on a swivel, always looking for the signs he was trained to watch out for to spot a dangerous situation before it occurs. But he just can’t wrap his head around protecting his Scion and nobody else - as such, he has a tendency to slip back into his old habits and stick his nose in brewing conflicts when he finds them, even if his Scion isn’t involved.

Faith is a staple of everyday life in Veradis, and nowhere more than Juniperus itself. As such, Jannick, the middle child of six, got all the fixings of the pious upbringing: he went to a religious school, he served as an altar boy, and his parents made sure the whole family was in the pews every Sunday. To him, it was as routine as it was rigorous, with one teaching drilled deepest of them all: the Goddess loves you.

That wasn’t to say he didn’t love the Church, but what captured his young mind was not the priest at the altar, but the guards at the door: the Church Knights in their gleaming armour, shining like angels in the sun. Juniperus was crawling with them; with no civilian authority in the Holy City, all matters of public order were handled by the Church. Church Knights patrolled the streets, directed traffic, put out fires, and of course, fought crime. To Jannick, it seemed like they were the very force that made the world go round. And he wanted to be one of them.

The year of his seventh birthday, he begged and pleaded with his parents for months to let him become a page. While they were apprehensive at first, his pitiable whining must have worn them down eventually, because when the day finally came, he was introduced to Sir Ulrich Gerhardt, a man not too long out of knighthood himself. The new year would see Jannick join Sir Ulrich at the Civitas Equitum, where he got the chance not only to learn the basics of knighthood, but to rub elbows with the scores of other Knights, pages and squires who called the city barracks home. It was a dream come true.

The instruction of an aspiring Church Knight is rigorous and demanding, but Jannick sucked up every drop of it, from the mounted swordplay lessons to the late-night toilet cleaning. But his very favourite part was the field work, when he got to accompany Sir Ulrich on his duties. Sir Ulrich wasn’t the Knight Jannick had always pictured when he played Knights and Monsters with his siblings: instead of a traveling monster slayer or the Templar to a Scion, he was an officer of the Juniperus Police Department. His duties were varied and unique, and during his time as a squire Jannick accompanied Sir Ulrich on mounted patrols, investigations of crime scenes, arrests of petty criminals, and more small-time court appearances than Jannick cared to remember.

It was a strange job for a Knight, Jannick initially thought. It had its share of action, no doubt, and the JPD took immense pride in keeping the streets of the Holy City safe from all manner of crime - but at the same time, the job possessed a level of intimacy with the people of Juniperus that had never before come to Jannick’s mind, but soon became to him the very essence of a Knight. In the stories of his youth, the Knights were always slaying monsters on behalf of faceless villagers or questing at the behest of nameless clergymen for the good of the all-encompassing Church. But in Sir Ulrich’s line of work, the villagers had faces, names, and children who got lost and needed finding; the clergy consoled people whose apartments were broken into and whose assailants needed to be held accountable for their crimes. After a while, police work became, to Jannick, the truest expression of knighthood.

When he was 21, the time for his own knighting finally came. It surprised no one, least of all Sir Ulrich, when Jannick traded his golden breastplate for a kevlar vest and joined the JPD.

No one would argue that it was the right choice for Jannick, but life came at him fast, and he learned soon after his knighting that the calls Sir Ulrich saw fit to bring his squire along on were not the only calls the JPD had to deal with. Juniperus had no more crime than any other city of comparable size - with its heavy Knight presence, it probably had less - but the police department was kept busy all the same. Crushing boredom on patrol could turn into a deadly encounter in an instant; every time the radio screeched, Jannick never knew what he would face next. At first, it was exhilarating. In time, it came to test his faith.

He grew up learning - knowing - one thing above all others: the Goddess loved her children. That was why she created them; that was why, when they called out to her in anguish, she gifted them her essence, creating the Scions. But he was no theologian; despite his training as a Knight, he didn’t know or understand the deep mysteries of the faith Incepta had instilled into her Church. He didn’t know why, if she loved her children so much, they so frequently forgot her teachings and turned on each other. He didn’t know why the Mother was so content to let it happen.

As a police officer, Jannick saw firsthand the depths of human suffering and depravity. He unearthed the OD victims from their squalid apartments, nameless and known only to landlords complaining of the smell. He wrestled battered women as they begged him hysterically to let their boyfriends go free, only to respond to their house again the next weekend. He pulled the mangled bodies of children from twisted cars while the drunks who hit them walked away spotless.

When he looked up, Jannick saw the gleaming spires of the Cathedra Incepta, the points of the Sigil star embracing the city like the open, loving arms of the Goddess herself. But when he looked around, he wondered if he and his heavenly Mother were seeing the same thing.

The years passed, and he didn’t pray much anymore.

Jannick’s growing burnout must have been apparent, because unbeknownst to him, Sir Ulrich had taken it upon himself to give Jannick a chance at a different career: a Templar. But when news came that Sir Ulrich had recommended him for the position and he’d been accepted, Jannick was devastated; he couldn’t deny that the reality of police work weighed heavily on him, but the answer wasn’t to walk away. If there was so much evil in the world, and Incepta clearly wasn’t doing anything about it, then somebody had to act. He had been working ever more intently, foregoing leisure and taking on a daunting overtime regimen, because someone had to do something. He needed to be out in the streets, not guarding some vaunted magic brat.

But there was nothing he could do. Sir Ulrich meant well, but it doomed him: if Jannick refused such an honour, his reputation as a Church Knight serving the Holy City would be irreparably cratered. No citizen of Juniperus would trust a police officer who didn’t think guarding a Scion was worth his while, and even if the people didn’t care, his superiors certainly would. The best job he could hope for if he refused would be as a deputy in some backwater Rodion village shooting polar bears, if he wasn't stuck at a customs desk in some forsaken train station. If he wasn't stripped of his Knighthood altogether under suspicion of apostasy, that is.

The choice was made for him, made all the more painful by the fact that he had to accept it himself. And now he’s no longer Officer Weber, but Sir Jannick, Templar of Wind, in charge of a Scion who somehow takes the whole “blessed by the Goddess” schtick about as seriously as he does. Honestly, that’s probably even more insulting.

They took back his standard-issue handgun when he left the police department, so Jannick spent his stipend on a pair of his own, which he carries in his shoulder holster at all times. In addition to that, he'll suit up with a military-style carbine when he has time to prepare, and he's always been an advocate of the good old-fashioned baton.