[hider=Ionna, Templar of Miquella][CENTER][h1][COLOR=silver][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/231109/0ba929c62ce0023295985d603785fcba.png[/img][/COLOR][/h1][/CENTER]
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[CENTER][SUP]________________________________________[/SUP][/CENTER][CENTER][COLOR=FFFFFF]
[b][color=E40040]Ionna Rani[/color]
[/b][/COLOR]
[color=gray] Female [/COLOR] | [color=gray] 24 [/COLOR] | [color=gray] Rodion 
Templar of[/COLOR] [color=gray][b]Wouldn't you like to know, weatherboy?[/b][/color][/CENTER][CENTER][SUP]_______________________________________________[/SUP]
[color=gray][i]One day, when the Scions' reach exceeds their reason but not their grasp, they will pose a dire question to the Federation. Malen'kiy mech, she is my answer.[/i][/color]
[SUP]________________________________________[/SUP][/CENTER]
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[center][h3][i][color=E40040]"No one told me having a sacred duty would be this much fun!"[/color][/i][/h3][/center]
[b][color=E40040]Minor Holy Sigil Location[/color][/b]
[indent]Appears on her right shoulder, just above her prosthesis's anchor.[/indent]
[b][color=E40040]Appearance[/color][/b]
[color=FFFFFF][indent]Hair like fire, eyes a burning gold; Ionna strikes a distinctive figure—or would, were it not for her demeanor. Of all the words that may come to mind when one sees her, ‘[i]imposing[/i]’ would not be among them. She’s taller than average, with lean muscle built under a scrutinized training routine, but most eyes go directly to her prosthesis. Her right arm is entirely magitech, housed most often in a Templar-gold casing that, while pretty, functions with the perfect control of a natural limb. 

When they’re done staring, people often then look to her face, perhaps expecting an answer. Instead, what they usually find is a smile, and eyes that welcome conversation from friend and stranger alike. 

Though very fond of her Templar uniform, she does have a preference for more comfortable clothes. Long sleeves, jackets, and hoodies are a staple to cover her arm, the casing of which she swaps for something darker and less ornate.[/indent][/color]
[b][color=E40040]Personality[/color][/b]
[indent]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.[/indent]
[b][color=E40040]Biography[/color][/b]
[indent]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 “[i]The Wrath of Vuzkymist[/i]”, 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 [i]syrota[/i] he had come to collect lost her home.

She had been orphaned long before [i]The Wrath of Vuzkymist[/i], 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 [i]will[/i]. 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.[/indent]
[b][color=E40040]Weapon of Choice[/color][/b]
[indent]Technically speaking, Ionna always has a weapon on-hand. Her prosthetic arm is equipped with a [url=https://i.imgur.com/bMHYStn.jpg]retracting blade[/url] 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.[/indent]
[b][color=E40040]Misc.[/color][/b]
[list][*]Theme tbd
[*]In her first days as a Templar, between her casual clothing and friendly, almost servicing demeanor, she was mistaken several times for a maid. Her penchant for tidying her surroundings, as well as cooking and handing out snacks has some still unsure.
[*]Has yet to win a single bout of Rock Paper Scissors with her prosthetic.[/list]
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[CENTER][SUP]________________________________________[/SUP][/CENTER][CENTER][COLOR=FFFFFF]
[b][color=9e005d]Renault Allard[/color]
[/b][/COLOR]
[color=gray] Male [/COLOR] | [color=gray] 26 [/COLOR] | [color=gray] Doumerc 
Scion of[/COLOR] [color=gray][b]Lightning[/b][/color][/CENTER][CENTER][SUP]_______________________________________________[/SUP]
[color=gray][i]"He doesn't smile right. I don't know. Like when a dog shows you its teeth, it's not happy—it's gonna bite."[/i][/color]
[SUP]________________________________________[/SUP][/CENTER]
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[center][h3][i][color=9e005d]"It's so very good to be back."[/color][/i][/h3][/center]
[b][color=9e005d]Holy Sigil Location[/color][/b]
[indent]On the palm of his right hand.[/indent]
[b][color=9e005d]Appearance[/color][/b]
[color=FFFFFF][indent]Renault strikes a distinctive figure. He stands just over six feet, and has been described as ‘gangly’ by the less than generous, though they aren’t far off. An avalanche of red hair falls well down his back, and bright, almost lupine eyes sit behind a pair of sleek glasses. Most people, however, notice the smile first. He wears it often, even when it might be inappropriate, and to hear it said it makes him frustratingly difficult to read. Perhaps that's the point.

Though a sharp dresser, he doesn’t bother adapting to new trends. Renault has a small but trusty wardrobe of dress shirts, button-ups, vests and coats that he’s worn since he first stepped foot onto the aristocratic scene. He favors dark colors, and smart cuts that don't cross the line into flashy, but still command elegance on the right shoulders.[/indent][/color]
[b][color=9e005d]Personality[/color][/b]
[indent]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.[/indent]
[b][color=9e005d]Biography[/color][/b]
[indent]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 [i]portfolio[/i], 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 [i]un[/i]stabilize. 

They were the worst. 

It was all fake, which he’d known perfectly well already, but having to [i]interact[/i] 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 [i]teams[/i], 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 [i]was[/i], 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. [i]Some[/i], he stressed giddily, [i]but not all.[/i] 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.[/indent]
[b][color=9e005d]Weapon of Choice[/color][/b]
[indent]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.[/indent]
[b][color=9e005d]Misc.[/color][/b]
[list][*]Theme tbd
[*]Renault is quite a talented dancer, especially with a partner.
[*]Has a passable singing voice but can't play an instrument to save his life.[/list]
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