[IC] Wardens of the Glade: A Light Fantasy RP

a l i g h t f a n t a s y r o l e p l a y

[mickilennial]

“My story is just beginning, you see.”

P O S T I N D E X

To Be A Knight!
#1

[mickilennial]

G M P O S T
G M P O S T

_{Location: The Grand City of Atutania}

Prologue: To Be A Knight!

---

The first day of the second season¹ of the calendar year was always a cherished one in the Grand City of Atutania. A celebration of the Order of the Glade, the great hero it devoted its purpose to, and its service to the nations before it. The first day of trials and tests for those who sought to become known as a warden. The Day of Heroes².

But the Lord-Commander was not really thinking about another year of promising new recruits nor was she thinking of the festival that the city put on. She had other things on her mind.

“The world is teetering, isn’t it?”

Alicia Welrae sat blankly in her private chambers, arms crossed as she looked over various parchments in front of her. There was nobody else in the room.

“We haven’t been this unprepared in centuries,” she murmured in contemplation, “and it has happened under my watch.”

She sighed and looked upward.

“Seleistia watch over us all.”

◈ ◈ ◈

◈ ◈ ◈

Dreańe Priihdontas was bored.

Granted, Dreańe was always bored. As a veteran warden she was used to being in the field, not that she was particularly unenthused about her position as one of the few training prospective recruits into the order. The seven days ahead, as per the trials³, were going to be grueling and a test of character. Dreańe remembered her days as an aspiring warden with eyes as big as the sun. She passed the trials on her first try, of course, but very rarely were people truly ready for the fight before them.

Sometimes, initiatehood hopefuls even died on the seventh trial. How many would do so in the days ahead?

“Lady Priihdontas.”

And suddenly the green-haired warden was no longer bored. The appearance of the former child prodigy and newly humbled warden, Maxell Tolecht, was at the very least a curiosity. She wasn’t particularly surprised given the circumstances, though; she had heard the rumors about his previous assignment⁴. Those of their qualifications were only assigned to oversee warden prospects if they personally asked for the duty or if they needed to be reminded of their place in the order. She was the former and he the latter.

“Didn’t expect you to be here,” Maxell commented nonchalantly, “last I heard you were in that wretched desert.”

“Oh. Maxell,” the green-haired girl tilted her head, “suppose I was. But no longer.”

“Lord Tolecht.” the blonde corrected with disdain.

Maxell was the son of an undernoble, not particularly powerful nobility, but despite that and his particular reputation for having the impulse of a wild wolf, he did care much about formalities and manners. She didn’t, but she found it quite entertaining to push his buttons. Of course, this was known about her. It was sort of common knowledge among her fellows in the order that she was a bit of a devious one, after all, controlling people’s impulses was a lot easier than controlling hers.

“Lord Toilet,” she smiled wryly, “I cannot wait to see what initiates come to the proving grounds this year. That is, if they don’t get lost in the city among the celebrations. Quite unfair that we never get to participate, don’t you agree?”

He shot her a glare and rolled his eyes, he knew what she was about.

“Games are for others. Not I.”

“But I like games!”

“I know,” he sighed, “worry not, you’ll get your fun soon enough.”

As they quarreled, initiates began to enter the proving grounds, hoping to become wardens. When they arrived they would then be met by someone who would take their name and information before allowing them entrance into the area. It was here that they would find themselves directed to practice their skills as wardens observed their skills. The options to showcase were up to them: archery targets had been lined up on the west end overlooking the rolling hills that sprawled throughout the glade, melee dummies had been set on the east end, and in the center a large practice circle stood.

A prelude to a great beginning.

---

<sub>1. The second season is called Harvest by humans and Niwlen (bloom) by elves.
2. The Day of Heroes is a holiday that most of the great nations celebrate in honor of Itena and her legend.
3. The wardens of the Order of the Glade are notoriously strict and their trials dangerous. “If one fails, so do the other four.” is a known adage for a reason.
4. Warden Tolecht caused an incident in Roengaar with dire consequences. As a result Roengaar has isolated itself from aid for disputes.</sub>

[ERode]

“Your name?”

“Sar-” Her voice cracked. Her eye twitched, cheeks flushing. A hand lifted up, asking for a moment, before she cleared her throat with a decisive, shuddering cough. “Sorry. Sarnai. From Dranabris.”

The attendant looked at her, eyes sliding from the crossbow slung over her shoulders to the decidedly peasant garb she wore. For a moment, Sarnai saw doubt, suspicion. Then, it was glazed over by apathy. Initiates came from all over Lacorron to try their hand at becoming a Warden. What was one more starry-eyed commoner?

He tilted his head in the direction of the painted targets off to the west, the furthest of which barely poked out from a distant hill and yet was already studded with bolts, arrows, and…were those metal cards? The attendant’s voice was decidedly flat. “Make sure no one’s down the range when you’re shooting. Doesn’t matter how good you think you are. Understood?”

Sarnai nodded. She didn’t think he’d say that if she looked like a proper Hahralian Bowman, but she wasn’t going to claim she was all that good either. A nod of her head, and the young woman stepped into yet another part of the world she had never been.

---

It had almost been a month since she had left the Milky Toast Lizard, left her parents behind. She hadn’t told either of them, only left a letter on her bed, but got caught by her mom anyways, just ten steps away from the tavern doors. But her mother understood a desire for adventure, even if she didn’t understand the thoughts swirling in her daughter’s head, so she just gave her blessings, a couple extra coins for the road, and watched Sarnai leave.

Three weeks and four days later, the barmaid arrived at Atutania with those coins still sewn into the inside of her dress. The journey had been eye-opening and nerve-wracking, familiar dunes and patches of greenery replaced by sheer cliffs, suffocating canopies, and sweeping vistas of diverse humanity. Her work as a camp labourer, running chores for cheap in exchange for being able to travel with a merchant caravan, kept her hands busy, but the dread crept onwards as time separated the familiar from the unfamiliar, eating away at her insides.

It was homesickness.

She had trod through Atutania’s roads, the merriment of the festivities like hammer blows against her diaphragm, each foreign permutation of the Day of Heroes reminding her just how alone she was. Break a leg, and there was no one who’d carry her to a clinic to mend it. Get sick, and there was no one who’d boil wheat porridge for her to recover. She had seen nineteen Days of Heroes back in Dranabris, and the twentieth looked wholly foreign. She managed to fumble her way into the proving grounds, but now that she was here?

Nobles, decked in glistening arms, their blades carving graceful trajectories through the sky. Warriors, tattoos stretched over taut muscles, roaring as they broke apart wooden dummies like twigs. Mages, proper, educated mages, calling forth the elements from the aether with a practiced boredom as they looked down upon the simpletons making a racket. Blade-dancers, longbowmen, whale-hunters, the mountain-bred. Even those that Sarnai could pinpoint as commoners similar to herself looked impressive, the evidence of their efforts displayed in the crispness of their movements, the straightness of her spine.

And what about herself?

What had she actually done, before she had decided to fling herself here? Who would have approved of this, if they had known she’d do this? Didn’t she keep all this to herself, because she knew that no one would approve? That it’d be a funny joke, that they’d laugh along and then she’d laugh too, like a tittering bird trying to match the mood?

Sweat beaded down her pale forehead. Her legs felt weaker, her stomach weaker. She stood out too much. Could feel other initiates turn their gaze in her direction, see everything that she was and wasn’t, and then use her pathetic state as fuel for pride or indignation.
Sarnai kept her movements smooth, but only just barely. She strode for a corner, for a stump to sit upon. Swept her dress behind her back as she sat down. Took in one shallow breath, then another. Looked at her hands, callused from fifteen years of labour but insignificant compared to those who she’d have to compete against.

Clenched them. Unclenched them. Then, as if struggling to grasp something, clenched them again, fists pressed against the bridge of her nose.

Her lips opened and closed, as if in silent prayer.

But it wasn’t silent, and it wasn’t prayer.

_{“Tie your boots. Roll up your sleeves. Tighten your belts. Check the lamp oil. Buckle your pouches. Loosen your corset. Count your bolts. Count your strings. Inspect your crossbow. Tie your boots. Roll up your sleeves. Tighten your belts. Check the lamp oil. Buckle your pouches. Loosen your corset. Count your bolts. Count your strings. Inspect your crossbow. Tie your boots. Roll up your sleeves. Tighten your belts. Check the lamp oil. Buckle your pouches. Loosen your corset. Count your bolts. Count your strings. Inspect your crossbow. You can do it you can do it you can do it. C’mon Sarnai, just stand up and go on five, four, three, two, one…two, three, four, fiv-”}

[Mcmolly]

---

Atutania was a paradoxical city. There was, without doubt, nowhere else in Lacorron quite like it; nowhere was grand in the same idyllic way, as tempered and bountiful in equal measure, as poised and peaceful. And yet, at the same time—and at especially this time—everywhere in Lacorron was exactly like it. Or, rather, Atutania was exactly like everywhere else. After all, a shield to the world, welcoming all behind it, could not help but reflect the peoples it protected. And so, on the Day of Heroes, Atutania was also Giellnal, Hahral, Ienarich, Itenaire and, perhaps, just a little bit, Viridian. City and Kingdom and Confederacy all at once, like everywhere and nowhere else.

Had Ionna not grown up on its streets, she might have gotten lost in the strangeness and clamor. The roads bristled with eager, uncertain traffic, carts and wagons and palanquins moved in staggered lines, carried by all manner of hoofed things. Guards ferried powdered nobility, merchant lords, eyed each other with mixtures of respect and unspoken challenge. Impromptu markets sprung up in the byways, parks became rest stops and meeting and greeting grounds. Confederate salesmen bartered with pelts and crude but unimpeachably sturdy tools; Hahral vendors hocked oils, wooden toys, beautiful paintings of places lost to the sands between the cities; Itenaire bravos offered expensive but assuredly crucial last-minute training to nervous initiates avoiding the trial grounds; here and there, street magicians wearing Giellnal colors drew small crowds to fill their hats with coin. Some, Ionna recognized, were Atutanian natives, but what did that really matter in the face of good fun?

And, she thought, good food.

The air was overwhelmed with foreign aromas, with smoke, fish, honeyed pork and roasting beef, with boiling oil, candied apples, chocolate and salt-and-caramel. In some places the tangle was so thick and unplaceable it could spoil the appetite, but from where Ionna walked, all she could smell was nostalgia.

She’d had almost all these foods once or twice, if not during the Day of Heroes, then in the lands of their origins, served at host tables or shared around communal, roadside campfires with other travelers. She thought of stories, and songs, and dances she’d learned. It was all she could do not to take a plate of curried chicken or steaming pilaf with her, but she couldn’t indulge yet. Today her meal had been quite utilitarian, and while she’d given herself time to wander and take in the quasi-familiar sights of her home, she still had a duty to fulfill.

So, dutifully, she bought only one modestly-sized packet of Hahral hard candy, and then pried herself from the cultural collage to follow a stream of hopefuls anxiously moving towards the proving grounds. The city officials were making good time processing them all, but by now Atutania had the Day down to a science, and the line hardly stalled enough to stand still in. Before long, she was ushered towards one of the sign-in desks, to an attendant who didn’t even bat an eye when she teasingly told him her name was ‘Ionathan’, but who suddenly found his sense of humor when he saw the Rielle crest on her shoulder-cloak.

“Will you be needing an explanation, milady?” he asked.

“Nah, I’m sure I can figure out a way to embarrass myself,” she said, and placed one of the candies on his ledger, before heading onto the grounds.

She popped another into her mouth as she walked, smiling at the memories its sweetness brought her. The trials were only just beginning, but already the range, the dummies, and the ring were teeming with competition. Ionna wasn’t averse to it, but by the end of the day there would be no shortage of bruised egos and broken dreams, people who had come from far and wide that wouldn’t make the cut, and would have to carry themselves home, hoping their drive would survive until the next Day of Heroes. That was the underside to all this celebration, the sobering realization that not everyone could be a hero.

But, Ionna liked to think, many people could—even those who doubted themselves. Especially those who doubted themselves.

For now Ionna wandered, observing the various trials, cheering on the meekest contestants, giving enthusiastic congratulations to the winners and rallying consolations to those who lesser performed. She offered candy to anyone who happened to make prolonged eye-contact with her, or who lingered too long within candy-offering range. Some accepted happily, others declined like she might have been offering them poison. She went on mingling anyway.

There would be time enough for trials, but in the back of her mind, Liura reminded her that she should never miss an opportunity to make some friends.

[Kuro]

A N N I F E R
A N N I F E R

---

Annifer had heard of cities before.

Stone-brick walls cold and rough to the touch and high as mighty. Armored guards wearing plate shined like a freshly washed cup. Streets packed to the brim with busied traffic, a fact further compounded by the on-going festivities. And there she was. A teensy, tiny ant against the current; a lone, out of place star among the cosmos.

Heaving a oversized, rugged sack over her shoulders, Annifer wandered the winding roads of the Atutanian stronghold. It had all been new to her. The smells. The people. The wealth, she quickly noticed, as highborn folk pranced along in their carriages protected by a group of armed men and women.

Her thoughts shifted to Lady Ariesca as she walked, mindlessly stabbing the ground with the butt-end of her pitchfork with each step. She had never met the woman in person, of course, but Annifer had her own idealized vision of the noble she had thrown away everything she had known for. Was she any different? Did she show pity to those beneath her station? Or, had Annifer thought wrong, and Ariesca was—oh, how did the saying go—"like two peas in a pod", flaunting her wealth much like these nobles were?

Perhaps, Annifer wondered, it was time to find out.

Stepping foot in-line with the other promising cadets, Annifer took in the nearby crowd. A blonde knight, with a taste for foreign candy, and a crossbowwoman, dressed in the peasant's garb, were among others scattered about. Knights were to be expected, she knew full and well, but to see a fellow peasant was a welcomed surprise. Perhaps Annifer hadn't been the only foolish one today, as some had come to tell her over the long, difficult journey to Atutania. Then again, the woman had been the one holding a proper weapon, and not some rusty farming implement like Annifer.

"Name?"

Annifer looked up, and came face-to-face with a corpulent beast of a man. It seemed he had served on the frontlines of the kitchen, she believed, rather than that of the battlefield like the rest of his fellow wardens.

"Annifer." Annifer replied. She paused, wondering if to note her village before continuing. "Of Aspador."

"Well, Annifer of Aspador," The man spoke with a hint of sarcasm, "I don't believe we have any hay to pitch."

"You don't have to worry, warden, it's for pigs."

The warden smirked, as if to say "I like this one!". Ushering her onward, the man allowed Annifer to pass on through the gates and join the rest of the prospective lot that had gathered within the order's grounds. The thought of introducing herself crossed her mind, but Annifer knew she had one goal above all in mind—to find Lady Ariesca.

After all, she was the reason Annifer had travelled so far. The reason she gave up everything for a glimpse of something.

[Eisenhorn]

---

What a festive, and ever so crowded, time to be wandering through the streets of Atutania. He had been forewarned by the mercenary mentor of his, Dame Garnnett Riese (or Teach as she had required until their parting), that he would have to move with a sense of purpose to make it through the streets in a timely manner. How right she had been, the throngs celebrating the very order he was seeking out, and the hero that started all of this. He knew the history, no one who considered themselves even slightly versed in the historical texts of the world wouldn't be at least familiar with the saga, and why it was so greatly celebrated. At home it was a much more muted affair, at least in his household, recognizing that for all the heroics, it was Giellnal that had associated with the catalyst. Some, like his sister, celebrated the triumph, others such as his father remembered the misdeeds, but that was neither here nor there. Both were long behind him, it had been an exhausting trek to make this year's trials on time and in good order. Riese had seen to that, more than once awaking to a steel tipped sabaton in his ribs to pack, they marched at dawn. Compared to the jostling crowds and sheer noise, however, it was a small nuisence.

It was not hard for Toma to make his way to the proving grounds, anytime he even felt like he was drifting off the path it only took a slight question to get immediately shuffled off the right way. People here were all too willing and cheerfully able to guide would be initiates to the proving grounds, something that did not take nearly as long as he would have feared. Quite the line had already formed, mind, but experience and practice kept them moving at a very brisk pace. Truly an eye opening variety of people here from just about every walk of life imaginable to him. He could have swore he even saw a pitchfork shouldered somewhere ahead of him, and if someone wielding such an implement of...'destruction' could make an honest attempt he felt slightly better about his odds already. Before long though, he was already being questioned by one of many attendants processing the influx of would be wardens.

"Name?"

"Toma, of House Morriss."

---

"You sure you want to snub the old lord like this, lad?"

Toma was stuffing his pack, his mentor and teacher for the past year and a half leaning against the doorframe of the boy's room. His older sister was waiting out by the servant's gate, only her and father had the keys to leave the estate at this time of evening. Lady Morriss was also present, a thin smile on her face as she watched her youngest pack what worldly belongings he saw fit to take with him. It wasn't much, clothing, a few journals, and enough coin to make it on his own if things did not work out for the best. Toma, glancing back at Dame Riese, resisted the urge to scoff. Last time he did that he had bruises for weeks from the intensive training he had gotten in return for such a thing. He was ambitious, not foolish, however and replied quietly, as if expecting his father to be waiting for him to vocalize in no uncertain terms his plan.

"I will not wait for him to talk down to me again as he allows me to depart under my own terms. He won't raise a hand to Mother or Sis, and I heard how he treated the last Morriss to depart like this. Wasn't it you that said that waiting to strike is how you get struck?"

Dame Riese cocked an eyebrow briefly at the boy's return of an early lesson she had beaten into him, mostly literally, but it proved that for all the scholarly knowledge and Morriss stubborness, he was paying attention the whole time. She glanced at Lady Morriss, who was funding this last part of her contract personally so that Lord Morriss could only complain so much, who shrugged idly as she stood and walked over, embracing her youngest son one last time. She was confident that, much like her middle son, she would not see him again. Not in a way that she would know, and would not let Toma go like she did the last. Not without one last hug, and a whispered few words of encouragement for him. She would not let him falter and be mistreated like her second child, even if it meant braving the anger of her husband. Especially if it meant that.

"Dame Riese will see you to the edge of the Grand City, that is as far as she is willing to go. I ask not why the limit, but if you cannot make it through such a pleasant place I fear all is already lost. Go do the Wardens proud."

A quick squeeze of a hug in return, and Toma slung his pack over his shoulder. Even something so utilitarian in design still had the hallmarks of a noble's make, something that would not be so readily escaped until he was truly gone from this life. Dame Riese led him out of the estate proper, having already ensured the guard patrols would not be in their way. Nothing that would brand her criminal, but extra wine rations worked wonders in making overworked and underappreciated guards willing to overlook a late night stroll. After all, they didn't see who it was that was leaving, and if they did, well, they knew better than to tempt the wrath of the lady of the house. It was not a long walk to the back gate, the servant's exit that was locked tight by this time of evening. His sister was waiting, arms crossed, though she pushed herself up fully as the two approached.

"So that's it then T?"

"It was either tonight or put up with Father tomorrow. Don't let him do anything I would have to come back to fix."

That got a quickly stifled laugh out of Toma's sister, who gave him a rough hug before unlocking the gate and letting the mercenary and wayward brother off the estate grounds. The longer they travelled before making camp, the harder it would be for Lord Morriss to track them down. Toma swore he would march until the following dusk, something that he would quietly, but not verbally admit, regret ever saying. Dame Riese took him at his word, and they were long gone before Lord Morriss awoke. Long gone by the time he realized his wayward son was gone and beyond his final reproachful reach. Not that Toma would know what transpired next, with Dame Riese driving his march, he would not be given the luxury of missing his appointed time to reach the Grand City of Atutania. No mercenary worth their coin would allow any less to occur, no matter how taxing it was on the boy. He would have time to rest before the day of trials itself began, that would have to suffice for him.

---

"...Suffice indeed, may we meet again under better circumstances Teach..."

Toma had been given instructions on the layout of the while his mind raced through the past, something that he had been catching himself doing the past few days. More so than he had the entire trek here, and with a nod of gratitude he set himself onto the proving grounds proper. He was almost immediately offered some piece of candy, something he politely but firmly turned down. Old habits and all, but he wouldn't put it past someone to taint treats for the sake of an edge in the trials. Rather he saw some working through the training dummies, going through martial drills with their chosen weapons. He could do that, certainly, but there was nothing flashy or eye catching about his method of wielding a flanged mace. Dame Riese saw to that, flashy got you killed, eye catching got you killed faster. Good for soldiering, bad for standing out, so he continued walking the proving grounds, passing the archery targets next.

That would not be a terrible idea, Toma was much more dangerous and stand out with his magic than he ever was with a mace. Hurling barrages of frigid ice shards down range would demonstrate strength and precision of magic, as well as longevity in his reserves, but that alone would not be enough to prove himself in one smooth motion. Of course one could argue that it was not the point of this whole contest was not to simply prove oneself in a single attempt, but Toma could not shake the need to stand out in a notable way. That left, of course, the practice ring in the center. Greater risk, especially since sparring with unknown quantities could lead to him being horribly embarrassed, but he would sooner stand tall in the ring than simply swing at inanimate objects. After all, an inanimate object would never prove anything other than 'yes, this person can hit something that doesn't fight back real hard', and that would never suit someone like Toma. So he entered the practice circle, leaving his pack on the edge of the ring. He spoke clearly, letting his voice carry naturally, to all who might be nearby.

"If anyone wishes to spar, I would welcome the opportunity. Far better way to shake off the stiffness of a long trip than swinging at dummies." Toma had his mace in hand as he made his open offer to anyone willing to take him up on his offer while, in the interim, he started going through the training regiments and practice drills that had been not so figuratively beaten into him. A form of 'fighting one's own shadow' as he went through blocks, deflects, turning momentum into strikes before resetting his stance and resuming again. It was a good way to warm up, and he hoped that anyone who took him up on the offer only saw a cocky noble with a glorified stick who thought too highly of themselves. Of course if no one stepped up to the offer he would have to consider his options from there, but perhaps a willingness to face the unknown in such an offer would be worth something in its own right.

[Asura]

Ynga

Location — The Grand City of Atutania

Interacting — @ Everyone & No One

---

The long-awaited Day of Heroes dawned upon Lacorron, and with the rising of the sun over the Grand City of Atutania, Ynga's long journey south came to an end.

It had been some weeks since she set off from the great hold, which had been her home for all her years, and sat at the helm of one of her grandfather's great longships. For days, the oarsmen brought them swiftly down the River Breein, the sails filled with young Ynga's wind when they grew weary from the hard labor. It was the least she could do for those proud Ienarich men who set forth to see her off on her journey, bringing her from the far-flung corners of their frigid homeland to the heartlands of Itenaire, where kinsmen of theirs had fought under this banner or that over the years. She parted ways from her escort at the docks, insistent that the first steps taken on her path towards greatness be taken with nothing more than the steel at her hip and the furs on her back.

And the generous care package that the women of the hold had put together for her, of course. But that much was expected: quarrelsome though the sons and daughters of Ienarich could but, all knew the value of community in the face of hardship. The people of Ienarhald would not allow the little princess of Nordavind to go unto the southern lands without the comforts of home to buoy her journey. And buoy her journey they did, as she made her way across the countryside, sleeping rough where she could and taking succor in the temperate fields and forests here and there. If the Wardens of the Glade were to accept her into their ranks, she reasoned, then the lands of Itenaire would become as common a sight as the dense woodlands of her wintery home. All the better to grow accustomed to them before the vigors of her training set in.

The fields and forests were swift to give way to rolling hills as she wandered the roads in search of her ultimate destination, however, and as morning cleared and the sprawling city that spread out beyond her rose to meet the day, Ynga descended upon it with an almost childish glee. How could she not? This was the city said to have spawned the Hero of all Lacorron, whose journey saw the order of the day rise from the chaos of old. It was the home to the realm's most stalwart defender, and—soon enough—it would serve as her new home away from home, once the Knights of the Order came to know her as the huskarls of her grandfather's own city did. But before she could claim her position of honor at their tables, she needed to find her way to the halls in which those tables were found.

And before she could do that, she needed to quell the rumbling in her tummy. Many days prior she had eaten through most all of her herring, and there was naught but crumbs of rye in the kerchiefs which held the loaves she set off with. For the better that she had done so, for it made indulging the sights and smells all about the city all the easier.

She must have looked the part of a doe-eyed foreigner, as she dodged about avenues so crowded she could scarce believe. Even on festival days, most holds could not boast so many souls wandering so freely about the streets, and the revelry was something to behold. Thrice she found herself enamored with one street performance or another, mummers dressed in flamboyant costumes depicting this hero or that, reenacting the great deeds of stories that Ynga both knew and did not. The young warrior couldn't help but applaud their displays, and she parted with more than one of her shiny copper coins before moving on from one show to the next. Another couple of coins she parted with when he stomach led her to a vendor settled upon a corner where one wide street intersected another. A more frugal young woman might have bartered, but the clinking of coins was far less appealing to her than the sizzling of sausage, and when she parted from the vendor, she held a particularly fat example of its kind between her fingers.

A murmur of delight followed close behind the satisfying snap of casing against Ynga's teeth, and huddled away from the foot traffic, with such a savory feast at her fingertips, she could not help but lose track of time. The southern sun hung high above in the warm skies, and there would be time yet to join the Knights at their stronghold. For now, enjoying the local flavors was of a more chief concern, however uncouth it might have appeared.

[Lemons]

---

Lina was skipping.

Not exactly the most dignified way to move, especially for one of her station. If her family saw her skipping through a place as 'hallowed' as Atutania, their hearts would collectively explode, she was pretty sure. She could almost hear them: This is not how a scion of the Ariesca family should act! Have some dignity and decorum, and remember that while you're there you are representing all of us! And, like, she could, but like...why? She was still a little miffed at her family. She'd never left Itenaire. She hadn't even spent much time out of her family's estate. So when there was a festival all throughout the street like this, well, what was she supposed to do but enjoy it? As she meandered through the streets, eyes wide, it slipped her mind for a moment that she should really get to the trials right about now. The smell of Hahral spices floating through the air! The hustle and bustle of the crowds all around her! It was wonderful, she should really get to the trial but oooooh, was that stall selling meat and vegetables on rolled-up flatbread of some kind? It smelled heavenly! Way better than all the boring meals she'd had back home!

It hadn't taken long for Lina to arrive at Atutania; living in the middle-west of Itenaire as she did, it was a relatively short trip of just a few days and nights until she'd stood before the gate, thrown open to allow for free traffic on the Day of Heroes. She'd gone in with the full intent to immediately head to the Order's training grounds, honest. To present herself as a potential knight with her martial skill. But she'd been cooped up in her family's compound forever, and now she finally had a chance to wander around a real street festival? There was no way she was missing this! Maybe she'd just go down a street or two to see what it was like before she headed up? And that plan lasted exactly as long as the plan to miss it all and just head straight up.

While the small guard her father had sent with her had asked to come inside, she'd dismissed them as she entered the city. They'd all report back to father; which meant that in the end, they'd be just as boring and stodgy as he always was. She'd be yelled at if he was there, but he wasn't! And he wouldn't be for who knew how long? So she wouldn't need to deal with all of his stupid lessons! She was going to become a knight! This was a good day! She didn't need a bunch of sticks in the mud dragging along behind her and pulling her mood down when things were so great!

And so: now she was skipping. Catching a few dirty glances here and there when she needed to dart through the crowds proper, but mostly keeping to the sides, she deftly wove around people as she wended her way further into the festival. Another smell wafted across her path then; and taken a long, appreciative sniff, she ceased her skipping and came to a stop in front of a wooden stall roofed with fabric patched into every color of the rainbow. A pair of Hahral behind the counter were cutting chunks of meat off a large steak and sticking them along with roasted vegetables onto long wooden skewers. Oh man, it looked and smelled amazing! As they turned to her, she placed a few coins on the counter and gave her best bright smile:

"Two, please!"

---

She was still working her way through the second, popping a chunk of roasted pepper into her mouth, when she stepped up to the registration table. Not skipping this time, but certainly not garden-variety walking. Bouncing, almost; a big smile on her face and her toes curling in and out in her boots. The bored-looking mousy woman behind it looked up at her flatly, raising a single eyebrow. Likely at the fact she was still eating, even as she came to the trials.

"Name?"

She swallowed, then gave a bright smile. Her loud voice came out almost as a chirp: "Ariesca! Lina Ariesca!"

The woman's eyebrows shot up in a moment of surprise before she composed her face again; and even after, her eyes remained much more alert, and her back was ramrod straight, like she'd been electrified. Ariesca was quite a well known name in this part of the world, after all, and having one show up to the trials of the Order likely wasn't expected by any measure. Her eyes strayed down to the twin swords on the girl's hips, and she pointed down at a wall of dummies and a big ol' sparring ring. "Uhm--Miss...Lady--over there for close quarters weapons."

Nodding at the attendant with a quick "thanks!", she trotted over to the area in question. Swords, maces, flails, there was even a girl with a pitchfork sticking out like a sore thumb! In no hurry to start swinging, either at dummies or the person who'd stepped into the practice ring (she hadn't even finished her food yet, after all!), she elected instead to stand and watch for a while as she polished off her meat and vegetable stick that the Hahral had called a "kebab." No fun fighting on an empty stomach, after all, no matter what Dad said about it making you stronger, and with food this tasty, why rush?

[Feyblue]

---

The winds sing between the branches of the great tree. The boundless sky rejoices in its embrace, wrapping all the world below in a canopy of noblest blue. A time to grow, a time to live, a time to thrive, as all the world wakes from the stillness of winter and blossoms once again into life. The bells adorning golden branches ring, reminding all of the memory of those who came before, returning to the roots that they might one day be born anew, and take up the path where their feet left it so long ago.

Flowers bloom atop headstones. The dead become spirit. The spirit becomes life. So the great cycle continues, from the first blossoms of niwlen, until the last leaf has crumbled and fallen.

In such an auspicious season, one would be predisposed to look favorably upon all new beginnings, bearing hope that the year to come would reward every endeavor fruitfully. One might even be inclined to take such a time to celebrate taking that first step, honoring the sacrifices of those who came before while praying for the triumph of those to come after.

Truly, a noble sentiment -- and utterly without merit.

Of course, I had expected nothing, from the very moment I first set out from the by-now distant Viridian Sea. I had always known that the outside world was a rough and graceless place, devoid of the peace and tranquility I had enjoyed in the days of my youth -- such as I was afforded it, anyway. But no amount of cold glances or silent scorn could have prepared me for the indignities of my arrival into human society.

It was a day's walk from my clan's encampment in the Near Woods before I found any signs of the Menfolk or their civilization. It was well that it took me so long, as I spent much of that time cursing my ill-fortune, cursing the elders, and cursing the weight of the armor which they had so generously entrusted to me. It was only in a fit of admittedly justified rage that I first touched the spirits inhabiting it, and so realized its utility -- and after that, the process of acclimating myself to harnessing their power was a difficult one, so much so that I counted myself fortunate not to be seen by anyone until I had thoroughly mastered it.

Wind-walking was not so dissimilar to operating the glider-kites that I had so often used to deliver messages for my master in the past, and as such, came surprisingly naturally to me. Though it was rather difficult to maintain my conception of a nonexistent sail surrounding me, my own instincts better served where reason had failed. Or perhaps I was simply overthinking things to begin with. I am, after all, a prodigy -- once I determined it to be possible, it was only a matter of time before I succeeded in achieving it.

So it was that by the time of my arrival at the menfolk's trading post, I had learned to move so swiftly and subtly that they hardly noticed my presence until I was already at their gates. I gave my introductions, met with the chief among their caravan, handed over the gifts that my master had ordered me to convey, and demanded to be afforded passage along with them on their return journey, that I might seek audience with the supposedly-vaunted "Wardens of the Glade" and earn membership in their order.

This meeting, for the most part, went well -- though not without a few uncouth jokes and jabs regarding my age. Apparently, my manner of speaking gave them the impression that I was a Druid myself, of some hundreds of years -- and although I was admittedly very flattered by this, when I corrected this assumption, they had the temerity to laugh at me.

Just because we do not wither so quickly does not mean we are slow to bloom, yet when I tried to calmly explain this to the man, he clearly did not understand nor appreciate any distinction in such matters. Instead, he merely chided me for "trying too hard to act grown up," and insistently called me "little miss elf" for the rest of our journey. His sickeningly-forced politeness and overly snide, world-wise attitude grated on me far more than I had expected. The elders who had sent me on this fool's errand were fools themselves, but at least they had earned the right to foolish condescension through years of experience. To be lectured by some sapling of a mere 40-some years as though he was a sage himself drove me to such frustration that by the time we arrived at the so-called "Glade" of Atutania, I was quite glad to be rid of him.

Not that my new environs were at all preferable. Clearly, these menfolk knew nothing of the world, to style such an abominable construction a "glade." When I had heard the name of the place to which I was bound, I had held out hope. Even among savages, I might still at least be graced with the company of the spirits, and honored with the noble task of watching over the remains of those who had perished long before in the days of chaos.

Yet what met my eyes was the most sparse, pitiful, debased and desecrated excuse for a forest I had ever seen in all my 18 years. The menfolk's roads of broken stone wound about every which way, choking out what few haggard saplings remained like the coils of an invasive weed. Their towers piled high, blocking out the sun from ever reaching the yellowed grass in their shadows -- where it even still existed. Flabbergasted by this unholy sight, I was forced to conclude that whatever buffoon had contrived this place's nomenclature had never seen a forest in his life, much less a glade.

And as I entered into the stone forest these menfolk called home, I was only further dismayed to see that such ignorance extended even farther than that. Everywhere I went, I found their beady little eyes fixed upon me, always muttering or whispering something, yet retreating the moment I so much as looked at them. One, a mere sprout who might well have been born yesterday for all I knew, even pointed at me and asked his sire what was wrong with my ears!

Unbelievable! Truly unconscionable! Had they ever so much as deigned to venture outside this barbaric cesspool, perhaps they would have known better. To have only just arrived and already finding myself confronted by such unimaginable ignorance, I was forced to conclude that these menfolk must have been a horribly backward people, who knew nothing of the world, if even I, with my meagre upbringing and few years of experience, so vastly excelled them in my understanding.

So much greater my misfortune, then, that I had no choice but to try and ask them for directions. After all, for all my prodigious intellect, I was still a stranger in these lands, and ill-equipped to comprehend the nightmarish and labyrinthine convolutions of their "city." Yet the moment I would try to approach or strike up conversation, the wily humans would simply make some excuse and immediately dart away -- only to resume their staring at me from a safe distance once they thought I had lost sight of them.

And to be fair, sometimes, they did in fact escape my notice. There were simply so many humans all around, lining the streets in every direction I looked, that it became impossible to tell one from another, where one was coming or going, or even at times where I was. They were worse even than the savage monkeys of the great forest, an innumerable troop all staring and circling and hooting and chattering in such a great cacophonous din that it set my ears to curling flat against the sides of my head in a futile attempt to drown out the noise.

It was only by a stroke of luck that the crowd's pushing and shoving happened to carry me close enough to see a man in a familiar uniform, which I recognized from master's teachings. Seeing my opportunity, I swiftly extricated myself from the man-monkeys' midst and approached what it became evident to me was some form of reception desk. Trying my best to ignore the overwhelming smell of meat coming from the red-haired she-monkey in front of me, I at last made my way to the front of the line, and made report of myself.

"I am Sternwyss! Daughter of Adalyr, and apprentice to Sage Ailín. I have come on my master's orders, to participate in your knightly trials! I ask you, where are the entrance rites of the Order of the Glade to be found?"

...As it turned out, the answer to that question was "right over there." An anticlimactic conclusion to an utterly infuriating odyssey -- but by this point I simply welcomed an end to my searching. The sooner I could complete this wretched task and retire myself to any semblance of solitude, the better. This "city" felt fit to soil my very soul, and I desired nothing less than to take part in any sort of community with its uncouth inhabitants.

[Altered Tundra]

“What is that atrocious odor?” Zyran gagged as he stepped into the Grand City of Atutania.

No, not grand. Nothing about the plain, unrefined peasant-for-a-city that was Atutania was deserving of the title of grand. His father, Hisham, now that was someone who was fitting of the title “Grand Prince”. His home of Atuunis was fitting of being called grand, but the shithole that he was forced to travel to? Unacceptable! It’s an insult.

Prince Zyran was someone who hated traveling and he hated it even more when the end of his journey made the slums feel like paradise. For almost a fortnight, with nothing but three of the best guardsmen that the Siada family could afford traveled with him, Zyran encountered all sorts of horrors. He experienced the lack of a comfortable bed and had to settle for inns like he was some commoner. Imagine that! Zyran Siada having to sleep in a bed no bigger than how far he could stretch his limber legs. And that was on the nights where they could rest comfortably…Or whatever the commoners thought comfort was. There was no servant to wash him, dress him, or sit there as he vented about the problems he had. The closest thing to that was the owner of these inns, but after barely scratching the surface, they silenced him and even threatened to kick him and his hired guards out of the inn.

So what if he offered to buy the inn if these owners kicked everyone else out so he and his traveling companions could have the place to themselves? It’s not like he insulted the wives and partners of these innkeepers. Zyran wouldn’t dare do that.

Well that’s why he’s in such a sour mood. No inns or commoner levels of comfort for nearly a week. Word traveled fast about the entitled prince of Atuunis fast and inns refused him. But he had standards.

Zyran walked alone through the main festival grounds of the Day of Heroes. It wasn’t the worst, he supposed. There was a certain flare to it, but it lacked refinement. The smells that penetrated his senses was like a sneak attack from someone without honor. Or when the servants address him as just “Zyran”. No use of “my lord” or “prince”. It’s so unrefined and undignified. What he felt invade his nose was the lack of spices.

The prince, whose white hair, attire of an elaborately-designed robe with silk sashes holding it up, and entire bravado came to a stop at one of the…chefs were trying to entice him with what, as the man called it, an Atutanian delicacy.

“It’s a meat pie. It doesn’t even look like you seasoned it,” The Hahrali prince sourly said, disgust on his face and he made a point to make sure the seller knew it.

“So do you want it or not?”

And the disgust devolved into a deeper level of disgust that was also insulted. “You really think I would poison my perfect body with this…filth?” With a laugh, Zyran walked away.

Not long, Zyran felt his insides grumble with hunger and he ended up buying one of the atrocious meat pie (certainly not like the Sfeeha the cooks make back home) only so he wouldn’t succumb to hunger going into the proving grounds. Each bite felt like he was insulting his palette. The unseasoned beef and how overcooked it was was demeaning to someone like him. It felt like the ultimate betrayal. Despite that, he consumed it so he had the energy for what knew was going to be a difficult day.

---

Zyran, with a belly full of spiritually-poisoned subsistence, had finally freed himself of the decaying odor of mediocracy that were the streets of Atutania and was closer to the proving grounds where he would show just how far superior he was to everyone. It’s where he would start his journey to become a knight of the order and prove to his father that, though his siblings have all achieved far greater things he has done thus far, being a Warden would far surpass all of them.

But alas, his desire would have to wait. What kept him was one of the worst things imaginable for the prince. Something so horrendous that it made the quiver on his back, the golden bow that was under it, and all muscles in his body ache.

“A line? Really?” He groaned, exasperated. He crossed his arms over each other, almost pouting and tapping his foot quite impatiently.

There was two people in front of him. One was a short redhead whose name seemed familiar. Lina Ariesca? The family name was, at least familiar to him but he couldn’t be bothered to remember. If it was important enough for him to actually care to remember, then he would’ve.

When she moved on, the other who Zyran caught quite the barbaric odor. His nose was sensitive, especially after being exposed to the natural scent of Atutania, the Shithole City, there was something equally as unripen as whoever was in front of him.

And then their name came.

Sternwyss.

What kind of name was that? Certainly no name he has ever heard of. It almost sounded elvish, but that couldn’t be possible. Why would they be here?

Zyran took notice of the ears and that confirmed it. He didn’t know whether to just ask the would-be tree-hugger if they were an elf or just some deformed human or if he should leave it be. It was beneath him to bring up such a matter but it was bothering him. So he decided to follow through with it, but before he could, they moved on so Zyran would have to save that for later.

He stepped forward and looked at the man in armor who stood behind the reception desk. “Name?” She asked in the most ungodly tone of voice. So devoid of passion.

“Are you seriously asking my name? Do you not know who I am?” Zyran gave him the benefit of the doubt and let her gaze upon his face so it would come to her.

“I’ve got no clue. Name?”

Zyran felt his blood boil so much that he was almost going to raise his bow at him. That level of disrespect was treasonous in Atuunis, but the diplomat in him that his mother raised him to be found restraint and clung to it for dear life because he feared his bruised ego wouldn’t let it slide. “I am Prince Zyran, of the GRAND merchant guild of Siada." He added extra emphasis to what he felt was important.

The man seemed to write it down on some piece of parchment. “Ranged combat is over there. There are targets you can shoot that fancy bow of yours at.”

For a moment, he wondered if he really should voice his displeasure with the way she insulted the Prince of Atuunis, but he let it go for now. Zyran would make her regret it when he aced all the trials and blew everyone out of the water.

The prince simply walked into the proving grounds, near the targets and readied himself to outshine everyone. They’ll see the shine of his bow and he’ll amaze them with how far he’s come with his magic. “If anyone wants to watch how it’s done--” He took notice of the peasant Hahrali with the crossbow and scoffed, “--how a real archer gets it done, feel free to watch. Perhaps you might learn a thing or two.” Again, he looked at the Hahrali with the crossbow, as if to direct that directly at them.

And Zyran withdrew his bow and pulled a steel-tipped arrow from the matching gold quiver on his back. As he took his position, he aimed for the center of the target.

[Yankee]

^{_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

"Put it over there- there I said, there!"

"It looks better over here!"

"But it will sell better over there!"

Before a squabble between young man and old woman could break out, the latter's daughter rounded the stall with her arms laden with goods. She walked up to Ashraf and dumped several bundles into his arms, which he received with a soft oof instead of a complaint. He peered around the pile as she spoke to him.

"It's been a few days now, you know there's no arguing with her," she sighed, which seemed to rile her mother up all the more.

When Ashraf first set out for the Grand City of Atutania, he'd done so on foot. It was about halfway through the journey that he realized he'd have to pick up his pace or he might not make it for the first day of trials, which would have been very embarrassing for his planned comeback. Then, like the gods were goading him onward, he met a small wagon train on the road. One of the families allowed him to hitch a ride with them, so in return once they'd arrived in the city early that day he lent them an extra pair of hands to set up their booth. By the time everything was unpacked, organized, set up and priced, it was well on into the morning. Then, the family's matriarch pressed a few coins into Ashraf's hands and affectionately told him to scram.

It was a paltry sum, but he wasn't in Atutania to make money in the first place. The last and only time Ashraf had been in this city, it had been for the same reason he was here now. He wasn't well acquainted with it at all, but the sights and sounds he took in while walking the cobbled streets elicited a vague sense of déjà vu. He shook the feeling away.

Things would not go as they did before.

...however, as before, Ashraf did allow himself some leisure time before going straight to the proving grounds. There were numerous initiate hopefuls that fretted so much their minds broke down before their bodies even had a chance to endure what was in store. Ashraf was not one of them. He took his time walking among the merchant stalls all vying for the attention of the holiday crowds, taking a genuine interest in many of the booths. As a festival, it was relatively small and tame compared to those in Hahral. And as a market, it didn't compare to the colorful caravans that still crossed the desert, selling their unique pieces in town and on the road and then disappearing; couldn't compare to the sprawling souqs of Akoth or Atuunis, bazaars stuffed with wares of incredible make both local and foreign... but it was lively, and the pride of everyday people -from chefs to weavers to blacksmiths- was on full display.

After enjoying some warm food and perusing many of the artisan stalls, Ashraf's came away with his coinpurse a little lighter. Not that it had been that heavy in the first place. He ran his fingers gently over two matching bracelets of opposing colors, the tightly woven Atutanian wool soft even under his calluses. Souvenirs for his sisters, though he'd have to post them home. He didn't plan to leave Atutania any time soon, after all.

He put the gifts into his small pack and started to make his way toward the proving grounds. As he neared the area, the festival gradually transformed. Farther away from the Warden's trial grounds the Day of Heroes celebrations reflected what Ashraf assumed was the usual Atutanian festive fair - but closer, and the spectacle of the trials seemed to cultivate a more fervent atmosphere. Heartier, healthier, and more expensive food was advertised to hungry initiates, smiths suggested weapon repair or outright replacement at a premium, and of course charming salespeople offering supposed blessings to the Warden hopefuls.

"Good luck charms for initiates!"

"No need for luck."

"Talismans for safety, compete without getting a scratch!"

"Anyone afraid of getting hurt should grow and come back next year."

"Improve your love life!"

"Oh? Another time maybe!"

When he made it to the queue, though there were still some people lining up behind him, the number of initiates ahead of him and already in the proving grounds made it clear he was one of the last people who was going to sign up. That was fine, it wasn't like being early scored them any points... wait. Did it?

As Ashraf sorted through his memories of two years ago, his attention was caught by a few of those ahead of him. Was that... an elf? Ashraf's eyes trailed over her long ears and ornate armor. He'd never seen one before, and didn't know anyone who could honestly claim they had either. How weird. Short, too, which he didn't expect. Then again he wasn't much taller, so he really couldn't judge. After she'd stormed off, the next name announced happened to be just as surprising. Siada? As in the Siada of Atuunis?

Ashraf leaned over to get a glimpse of the prince whose family tried their best to make every merchant's life in Hahral miserable. The lavish silken, gold-embroidered robes, the ostentatious bow on his back, the entitled speech... The young Siada seemed like a prick, which Ashraf had expected. He suppressed a click of his tongue as the prince entered the grounds. Was this a special year, or something? It wasn't just those two; there appeared to be quite a lot of high profile participants this time, if the unsubtle gossip being passed around was to be believed.

A few minutes and a more than a few people later and Ashraf crossed the threshold into the proving grounds himself. He felt a tingle of anticipation shoot through him from head to toe. He remembered how grueling the first few days had been, and would be, but he was undaunted. Before anything else he observed the other Warden hopefuls first, wondering if he could get a look at any other minor celebrities, but no other faces or names jumped out at him.

After a moment he noted a lady knight's approach. Actually, on second glance it was more likely she was here for the trials herself. Ashraf regarded her with a curious raised brow, up until she offered him a piece of hard candy and his eyes lit up. A very friendly initiate, then. Although the Free Cities were large and drew in people of many cultures, for the children growing up in Akoth there was one cardinal rule of society that must be followed, less one wanted to invite scorn and misfortune... if someone offered you food, you took it. With a smile at that.

He popped the sweet into his mouth, pressing the pad of his thumb to his tongue to clean away the sugary residue. The combination of body heat and a sunny day made the candies a little sticky. Now this was a nostalgic taste, he thought, though his father would probably curse at him for feeling nostalgia at his age. Nowadays Ashraf preferred honeyed fruit or candied nuts, even smooth cocoa or pastries for his sweets, but simple rolled sugar like this was still good. These were well made too, with a nice amber color and clear enough to see the air bubbles inside.

"Thank you," he told the woman, warm smile still firmly in place. "You have good taste. Have you had halva before? Try the sesame kind."

He had no idea if she was well traveled or just happened to pick a random candy, but the suggestion worked regardless. If only he had anything to return the kind gesture with. All he could offer at the moment was some casual chatter, which he gave freely, until they parted. Ashraf bid her goodbye but not good luck. If she made it through the first day he'd find her again.

Rather than go to either the targets or the practice dummies, Ashraf made his way over to the dueling circle. His martial prowess had improved a lot, now he wanted to test himself against his peers. These were the people he would both be competing with and serving alongside, so getting a sense of how strong they were (and how strong he was in comparison) early on would be helpful. The Warden's trial adage had haunted him for the last two years - he needed to know where he stood now. Fortunately there was already someone in the circle, a taller man wielding a nasty looking mace. That would be perfect, the heavier weight of a mace could make up for the shorter reach against Ashraf's own weapon of choice.

He dropped his own pack at the ring's edge and stepped into the circle. Ashraf was smaller than the average man, lean and clearly confident. He was dressed in simple, heat-venting clothes and a necklace of glass beads, and upon his back were a few wrapped poles - one longer than the others. Though Ashraf hadn't arrived early enough to hear the minor noble's offer of a spar, the fact that he was practicing inside the ring was invitation enough.

"Ready to move on from shadows to a real partner?" he asked the other man, golden eyes bright and smile turned toothy. He reached up and took the longer weapon in hand, bringing the butt of it down onto the ground with a satisfying clack. He unwrapped its head, revealing what had been all too easy to guess: a sturdy but plain spear.

[webboysurf]

K A Z R A N
K A Z R A N

---

Everything Kazran had ever owned jostled around in a single burlap strap slung over his shoulder. He had spun it around to cover his chest upon hopping down from the wagon. He had managed to hitch rides among friendly merchants and farmers for weeks, offering up the meager sum he had saved little by little until a single coin remained.

He was not a particularly appealing sight: he was large, covered in grime, and his hair was slick with grease. The sack was barely large enough to store his more treasured items, a simple wrapped handle clearly peaking through. The only thing on his person that clearly denoted his intentions in Atutania was a polished kite shield strapped to his back. He had cleaned it three times a day since he had gotten it, and it shone so bright you could practically see your reflection in it. Murmurs had followed him since he left Itenaire, but no one dared to accuse the teen of theft.

Especially not when they saw what tool he carried in his bag.

Atutania's festivities meant little to Kazran. He had not the coin nor the time for pleasant festivities. The smells did send his stomach twisting into knots of hunger, but he simply ignored his body's cries for sustenance. His soul needed to be quenched first.

If he failed here, nothing else mattered.

So, Kazran ignored the opulence on display. He ignored the aristocrats and nobles who seemed to watch the common rabble for entertainment. He ignored the greedy stares leveled at the shield on his back. He ignored all but the target of his journey: the trial grounds.

It was easy to recognize, by the high concentration of armed young adults. Most looked rather well put-together, with a not-insignificant assortment of those with noble blood. Kazran's heart sank at the sight of the others gathered. He knew that only some of those here gathered would even make it past the first steps: what chance did he have of being one of them?

Kazran wandered into the dwindling line in front of the sign-in desks, drawing a few odd looks from hopefuls and attendants alike. He shuffled along, until he was finally ushered before one of the attendants.

"Can I get your name?"

"Kazran... Kaz for short"

"Family name?"

Kazran simply shook his head. "I'm from Itenaire."

The simple statement seemed to be enough of an explanation, as the appropriate information was catalogued and noted. She half-turned towards the proving grounds, motioning towards the various facets. "You are encouraged to demonstrate your skills as you see fit. If you did not bring equipment, some may be provided for you."

Kazran shook his head , untying the knotted rope that drew his sack closed. He loosed the opening, before pulling out the large warhammer. He let the momentum and gravity swing the weapon's head towards the ground, forming a small spiderweb crack in the cobbled stone. The attendant's eyes grew wide for a moment, before clearing her throat. "Ah... well, um, we have some practice dummies set up over there for you. Feel free to find a free space first and set up as you wish."

Kazran nodded, smiling softly as he hoisted the hammer up onto his shoulder with ease. He lumbered through the crowd towards the training area. He searched for a sizable enough rock to take a seat, setting his belongings down in front of him as he did. He looked up to watch the other aspiring applicants go through their routines. His hands absentmindedly fiddled with the buckles and straps of the breastplate he had been gifted. He lifted it up over his head, easily shimmying his arms into their respective holes before sliding it over his chest. The arm guards were much easier, as were the greaves.

As he reached the bottom of his sack, he felt a small metal chain. His heart seemed to speed up as he removed the small locket from the sack, running his thumb over the small crest of the Bonderal family. He couldn't bring himself to open it, instead sliding the chain around his neck. He tucked the pendant under the breastplate, and rose to his feet. He readjusted his old smithing gloves, plucked his hammer and shield from the ground, and strode off towards the melee practice dummies.

He had everything to prove.

[mickilennial]

G M P O S T
G M P O S T

_{Location: The Grand City of Atutania}

Prologue: To Be A Knight!

---

The day continued forward.

More initiates had come to arrive, as others continued to show what they could do as wardens observed them with crossed arms and inquisitive looks. There were a handful of them, but only four of them with colored badges of red, blue, gold, and green for all to see. Or rather, if they were paying attention to such accessories.

Most initiates were trying hard to show their skill to even get a chance at glory to even get a sense of it.

“Remember, the Hero of the Glades came from nothing.” A green-haired woman bearing a golden badge said as a peasant swung a sword at the dummy before them in probably the worst way the veteran warden had ever seen. “Check your footing. Tighten your grip.”

Her eyes moved toward the practice circle as another pair of initiates left, having had their turn. She didn’t find the state of affairs of this year's batch too endearing, but to her, Silina Korda, she was just happy to help in whatever way she could while she recovered from her injuries sustained not too long ago. One could not tell, but she was just an inch out of step. It wouldn’t be long before those in charge would pair up initiates and then would come the real trials.

She frowned, as she moved away from the peasant she had coached, seeing who else could be encouraged.

---

[webboysurf]

K A Z R A N
K A Z R A N

---

Clumps of dried hay crunched underneath weighted steps. Kaz's pace was slow as he approached the target dummies, stepping in just as a teenager with soft hands finished a small, orchestrated technique. It did little against the makeshift practice dummy, but seemed enough to attract a small polite set of claps from other distinguished applicants nearby. Kaz's stomach turned in knots as he saddled his way up towards the free dummy, his knuckles white on the hilt of his weapon. His other hand held the shield awkwardly, metal clanking against metal at it jostled against the side of the breastplate.

He had learned the absolute basics already, though it was less about form and more about practicality. Don't get stabbed. Keep your shield up. Don't overextend. Let gravity do some of the work. Follow the hammer once it gets going. Keep pressing. Of course, at the given moment, it was all a muddled broth of words simmering in Kaz's head as he felt a few errant stares. If one didn't know any better, Kaz looked almost the part of a potential Warden. Almost.

Kaz settled himself a couple paces away from the target, his right shoulder facing it directly. His body faced perpendicular, and his eyes met those of the aspirant who went before him. The teenager's eyes didn't seem to burn with jealousy or rivalry as they met Kaz's... but instead seemed to be pittying. Kaz averted his gaze, turning to view the target. He looked past, seeing one of the instructors moving his direction, eyeing the new recruits.

This was it.

With his feet firmly planted, Kaz let the hammer slide off his shoulder. His arm twisted slightly, as his feet began to move. His left foot fell back, and his body turned with the momentum of the warhammer's falling arc. It wasn't as quick as some of the other maneuvers, but the sheer momentum helped carry his body in the follow-through. His right foot followed his left, his body turning around until he was partially facing the target. His arm strained slightly from the momentum of the hammer's upward swing, and Kazran's weight is the only thing that kept him from being lifted up off the ground.

A loud, sharp crack echoed through the air as the hammer swung just an inch too far. The edge of the hammer must have torn through the cloth, or perhaps the sudden impact strained the sewn fabric of the dummy. A cloud of hay suddenly engulfed the area in which Kazran had been, leaving the teen obscured and sputtering. The wooden pole the dummy had been attached to had splintered, with shards of wood joining the debris. Kaz, in his disorientation, felt the muscles in his shoulder strain to keep a grip on the hammer. While it did not fly from his hands, he was powerless to stop it from falling with a crash into the ground. Once again, a small but noticeable crater formed underneath the warhammer's head.

As Kaz regained his senses, the silence from nearby observers became deafening. The applicant before him and his entourage watched on with a mixture of disgust and fear. Kaz hoisted the hammer onto his shoulder again, feeling a lump form in his throat. He mouthed wordless apologies to those who had been waiting dutifully behind him, moving to the fringe of the training area to watch on from a bit of a distance.

He had his chance, and it went up in a cloud of straw and splinters.

[Asura]

Ynga

Location — The Grand City of Atutania

Interacting — @Yankee@Eisenhorn

---

The festivities never seemed to end, and neither did Ynga's wonder as the little sorceress wandered from stall to stall all across Atutania's fairgrounds. In the time it took her to cross from the gates of the city to just a stone's toss from the entrance to the proving grounds, she had finished her oversized sausage, a leg of mutton, no less than two sweet cakes fried in fat, and a long slice of a strange, flat bread dish topped with cheese that stretched delightfully when bitten. She was just polishing off the last of it as she reached her destination. The long lines she had spotted from a distance had seemingly shrunk amid her culinary conquest of this new land. A fortunate thing: it was difficult for her to contain herself, the energy and excitement in the air being what it was. With so many applicants having already arrived, she was admitted with little fanfare, whatever misgivings that might have been had at her slight stature all but forgotten as would-be heroes went about rubbing elbows and trading boasts.

And what an astounding roster! There were people of all sorts gathered up in the proving grounds, fighters and sorcerers from lands she could scarcely imagine. None from home, of course; her people were not the sort to send their young and bold into the ranks of the Wardens. A fact which made this task all the more important for her: she would need to distinguish herself, not only to advance her lofty goals of heroism, but to represent all of the Ienarich. A sense of solemn dignity threatened to overtake her, tamping down on the bubbling excitement that seized her gut.

The threat passed swiftly as her big, dark eyes caught someone in the crowd. When they settled on the young man, they grew in wonder.

She had known there were a great many nations in the world, from the tales which made their way back north with the seasonal warriors, who sailed down river to these lands to ply their trade as mercenaries, earning coin with might and magic to supplement the leaner months of the year. Those nations doubtless held many different peoples, some strong, others clever, but all distinct from those mighty scions of Ienar up on the northern edge of the world. It stood to reason, of course, that the denizens of these other nations would look different, as well. But never in her life had she imagined someone's skin to resemble more the oiled teak of her grandfather's finest furniture than the snowy paleness she had always known.

Before she knew it, she was hurrying over to the young man, eyes aglimmer with wonder. How had that come about? Were they simply born that way, coming from their mother's bellies in that most unusual shade? A trick of the magic they practiced? Or maybe they crisped up under a sun even hotter than Atutania's, fated to be not unlike the sausage she sunk her teeth into upon arriving. The question gnawed at her until she was close enough to the gentleman—and his companion—to speak.

"Ah! Pardon me, sir, but I couldn't help but notice your skin!"

Was it rude to interrupt their conversation? Perhaps, but this was a time for mingling, for getting to know the other competitors, so surely they would not mind her entering the fray.

"It's so pretty! I've never seen somebody so... dark, before! Did it hurt?"

[ERode]

Sarnai startled when a voice called out in her direction, her head immediately snapping upwards to see a Hahralian archer with clothes that were probably worth more than the Milky Toast Lizard.

"Sorry, but could you please repeat that?"

Clearly he would not though, as he made an art out of drawing an arrow and sighting his target, his posture evoking the heroic visages of puppet shows back in Dranabris. Where else but in Hahral could you see the act of archery made into performance, where the thrum of a bowstring became music? What more poetry did you need beyond the gaze of a bowman, settling upon a distant target, a certain future? Sarnai watched, even as a part of her mind was aware of the difference between a bow and a crossbow, even though she had already seen plenty of other Hahralian archers show off their arm when she stepped into these proving grounds.

And he was posing for quite some time, wasn't he? Perhaps making a show of his strength as well, to keep a bow at full-draw for so long?

After a moment, she decided that this was as good a time as any to start retying her boots.

[Kuro]

A N N I F E R
A N N I F E R

---

The sun shifted in the sky, ever-so moving as the passage of time progressed. And yet, Annifer had felt she had wasted the day; her quest to find Lady Ariesca yet to bear any worthwhile fruit.

The peasant girl stood idle in the distance, her gazed locked upon the sparring. A plated giant swooped upwards with his hammer, much to spectators' horror. A grotesque display, were splinter and hay instead flesh and blood. Still, Annifer did not fret. She was used to the world's brutalities, her thoughts returning home. Of when she took rock to rat's head, chancing disease to fend off starvation. Of when young Morwent had been struck by horse and crushed beneath wagon wheel.

Life was not kind, nor was it fair. But that was why she was here—to defy the destiny that had been laid out for her.

"Smashing, might I say." Annifer spoke, almost bluntly. She snuck a glance upwards at the tall boy as he resigned apologetic from the center stage. "You must've been practicing for some time."

[webboysurf]

K A Z R A N
K A Z R A N

_@Carlyle

---

"Smashing, might I say."

The teenager turned his face away from the source of the words, his ears burning with embarassment. All this effort and time only to be laughed at and mocked. If he had wanted more of that, he could have stayed home.

"You must've been practicing for some time."

Kazran stopped his brisk retreat as his brain processed the stranger's tone. His brow knitted together in confusion. If it was sarcastic, he couldn't pick up on it. "Oh, uhhh... not really, no."

He took a moment to look back at his work, a knot forming in his stomach as he saw other aspirants shifting away from the scene. "Sorry if you were waiting for that one. I got a little carried away." He readjusted the hammer on his shoulder, which in turn created a small tinkling sound from loosely fastened buckles brushing against hardened steel.

Kaz finally turned, facing the young woman. His eyes drifted towards the pitchfork in her hands, eliciting a single raised eyebrow for a second. If he had a question about it, he wasn't voicing it quite yet. He locked eyes with Annifer, letting his shoulders relax a little. This release of tension let loose a torrent of nervous clarifications. "I mean, I have been training... but not in a formal way. I never got the chance to train proper. I was an apprentice blacksmith back home. This is all... new." His last words were puncutated as he gestured his shield vaguely in the direction of the rest of the aspirants.

The small pause in his speech let Kazran refocus, and his eyes once again settled on the pitchfork. His curiosity had gotten the better of him.

After all, Isabella had told him it was polite to ask about others.

"Are you practiced with that?"

[Lemons]

---

Lina popped one final piece of lovingly spiced lamb into her mouth, and just like that the second kebab was gone. She looked down at the pair of skewers in her hands, wondering what exactly to do with them before shrugging and jamming them in the side of her belt. As tempting as it was to just toss them to the ground, the idea of throwing food detritus away in the grounds of the Wardens of the Glade's testing felt a bit too impolite, even for her. She'd find a fire to chuck 'em into somewhere or another. As much as she wanted to find more to eat--she was still hungry!--she had been standing there for a few minutes yet and hadn't even drawn her blades. She still had things to do, after all. As little as she actually cared about 'bringing glory to the Ariesca name,' the idea of having to creep home, tail between legs, because she couldn't pass? Now that she did care about. So giving a knuckle crack and a yawn, she pulled her shortswords from their artfully-worked sheaths and stepped up at an open dummy.

I could sever this, she thought upon first investigation. It wasn't altogether dissimilar from the ones she's trained with at home when she was younger, with a few well-placed swings she could carve it from its base and send it tumbling to the ground. It'd certainly get her noticed. However...there were more people here too. Did she really want to permanently reduce the number that could even participate out of a selfish desire to catch attention?

No, of course not.

So in lieu of breaking the thing, she instead elected to carve it up with as much skill as she could muster on a superficial level. Pieces flew from it and she sank into the comforting rhythm of swordplay. Slash, slash, slice, chop, thrust; all of them calculated to avoid the wooden support. She couldn't count how many times she'd assaulted a dummy, but there was one more to add to the list now.

At some point, her attention drifted, and she realized two things. One, a small crowd was gathering around her. Many of the applicants here likely hadn't ever seen swordplay, and the distinctly military breed that the Ariesca taught was a far cry from the dueling stances of Atutania.

Two, that despite avoiding the support, she was still shredding the thing nearly to the point of nonfunctionality. She stopped short, then sheathed her swords and stepped back, turning to see the crowd.

...One of whom had candy!

Belying the ferocity with which she'd torn the thing apart, she skipped (again!) up to the fellow young woman, twinkling eyes flickering between the half-full bag of candies and her face. When she spoke her voice came out almost like a chirp: "Ooh! Are those Hahral date-sugar candies? I've never had one, can I try?"

[Feyblue]

---

Noise. Damned, interminable noise. It came from every quarter, every angle, every person from every walk of life. The crowd and its unbearable din were more than thrice that of the summer festival at the foot of the Great Tree -- where even the drunkest and most lowly of elves, I might add, still exhibited more dignity and decorum than this deplorable pack of barbarians.

The aspirants among whose ranks I myself was most shamefully counted each seemed determined to draw more attention than the last, by whatever means and in whatever manner was most available to them. Some challenged one another to practice bouts, determined to elevate themselves by preemptively disgracing their competition. Others satisfied themselves with quietly practicing their strokes against the various dummy targets dotting the opposite end of the field -- though not, I might note, without subtly glancing back to see how many eyes were on them as they did so.

They were like the children at Master Ailin's lectures -- too eager to be noticed, and too stupid to realize that one proves more with silence and consistency than with boasts and showmanship.

Not that they had to make much of an effort to please the crowd in the first place. The townsfolk seemed intent on oohing and aahing over even the most mediocre displays imaginable. While I might not have been an expert in the art of swordplay, as such warlike things were scarcely taught under the peaceful boughs of the Viridian Sea, I nevertheless had at least enough experience to recognize when it was done well, and to notice the flaws when it was performed poorly.

Some among the assembled youths had such a tenuous grasp upon their arms that they seemed more likely to fall upon their own swords than strike their opponents with them. Others overcompensated in the other direction, hammering away with exaggerated strikes that nearly carried them to the ground themselves, and, in one notable case, shattered one of the practice targets like dead branch in a hurricane. I clicked my tongue in disgust at the man's carelessness -- it was disrespectful enough to the ancients to desecrate their corporeal remains for such a disgraceful purpose, but to destroy them so wantonly just to showcase one's own ape-like strength was more disgusting still.

At least one of these vainglorious humans had the presence of mind to restrain herself, turning her strikes away from the dummy of her choosing rather than engaging in any self-aggrandizing displays of pointless savagery. The speed and dexterity with which she applied her twin blades was neither exaggerated, nor did it seem anything more than effortless. Routine steps, repeated faster and faster, the preparation for each blow warding her body while the one before it struck home. It was graceless, but the art of killing did not require grace. More importantly, it was efficient, and it was controlled. I would have applauded her discipline, had she been able to maintain it for longer than a few moments before immediately lapsing into some form of frolicsome celebration.

...Wait, that red hair -- the same as from before. Perhaps rather than "celebration," "appetite" would be a more accurate descriptor of her motivations. Either way, her flippant demeanor concerned me none. She was perhaps of passing skill -- moreso than I could ascribe to any of the other candidates I had seen thus far -- but that was all.

At least she made no pretensions of being any more than what she was, unlike some people. The most disgusting display of all was not, it would seem, the brute, nor the airhead, but rather a certain foppish man draped in robes more gaudy and ostentatious than even my own entirely ceremonial armor. The gilded engravings upon his bow brought no honor to the legacy of the wood with which it was carved, nor did the manner in which he bore it. His every action reeked of excess -- the flourish with which he produced the arrow from his quiver, the grandiloquent tone in which he proclaimed his intent, the almost ceremonial reverence with which he raised the weapon above his head before he oh-so-slowly lowered it and drew back the string, and, most damning of all, the long stillness with which he contemplated his target before firing. His hands were not shaking, nor were his arms that held the bowstring. Had he so brazenly announced himself only to have no faith in the surety of his aim? Or was this, too, meant to be nothing more than a display of strength?

Pointless extravagance. Puerile self-infatuation. A "true archer," as he so naively styled himself, would have struck him dead before he had even finished withdrawing an arrow from his gaudy quiver. If this was what passed for the art of archery among the Menfolk, then even I, lacking any training in the art, would surely seem a prodigy.

But I had no more time to admire this man's monumental ignorance. It would seem the crowd ahead of me had thinned out, and my own turn to approach the stage of this grand farce had finally come. I took a deep breath, clearing my mind of the acerbic spite that had begun to take hold of my thoughts, and making an effort to curtail my knowledge of my own superiority for this one moment alone. It would not do to look down upon my peers for their ego only to allow the same haughtiness and lust for acclaim creep into my own swordplay.

I stepped forward, making no attempt to decipher the whispers of those behind me, no matter what their expectations of an elf might have been. I sized up the target -- little more than a bag of straw mounted around a crude wooden cross, bearing only the vaguest semblance of a mortal's shape. That, I would strike. The frame suspending it, I would leave unscathed -- it had already been desecrated more than enough by those who had come before me.

I withdrew from my sash the as-yet unfamiliar weight of my precious Manablade. I felt within the crystallized sap the still-beating pulse of the world, heard within it the echo of the chiming bells of my homeland, far away. The selfsame wind that rocked those bows spread to this place also, fluttering the gaudy pennants of the practice ground and rocking the sparse branches of the trees that made up this so-called Glade. It was fainter here, to be sure -- but that mattered little. The dust of the earth would answer my call all the same. The light of the sun would answer. And the wind, that noble wind, would answer. My lips moved, my voice came forth in a whisper barely audible even to my own ears, as I recalled the days of my youth, so familiar yet so distant, spent in contemplation of Master Ailin's instruction. What emerged from my own mouth, from the whirling eddies of thought and memory, were the opening words of an old poem, half-remembered yet unforgotten.

"Boughs that embrace the heavens, sway and ring."

The same wind that sounded the bell my mother's hands had hung lifetimes ago in a land half a world away now rested in the palm of my hand. I, too, was a proof of her existence, just as the blade I held would serve as proof of my own. I needed no announcement nor celebration -- my sword would speak for me all that was required of myself.

I raised it upright before myself in a fencer's stance, my feet shifting beneath me as though to begin one of the artful dances to which I was accustomed. But it was not an honorable spectacle which I wished to perform -- rather, a simple, decisive motion. With a flick of my wrist, I brought the shimmering, phantasmal sword down, carving its tip from the top of the straw target to its bottom. My grip was languid, my arm loose as I drew it gently back, the blade flowing accordingly like water, carving out the target's bottom and wrapping around it like the coiling of a serpent. Then, like the cresting of a wave, I raised it again, spiraling inward like a whirlwind upon all sides of the target, and sending a shower of straw and dust cascading into the air. With one final motion, I brought the weapon out and swept it horizontally before my body, its blade drawing back as I shook it free from the detritus it had accumulated along its course.

Its threads meticulously severed by almost a dozen near-simultaneous cuts, the straw bag that made up the target's form rapidly deflated, its contents spilling onto the ground, leaving a ragged and pathetic patchwork of mangled and empty sackcloth hanging from the still-pristine wooden framework like a funeral shroud.

In the same instant, the blade in my hand dissipated back into the dust from which it had been formed, and I calmly returned it to its holster by my side, and moved to return to my place on the far edge of the crowd in silence. If these menfolk wanted to gawk at my performance, they were free to do so -- but I would neither demand such fawning nor expect it. Either way, now that I had reminded myself of the sensations needed to activate the Manablade, I was confident in my ability to dexterously employ it when the time came for a real test. This pointless display, then, had at least sufficed as a warm-up.