Asura

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

ALASDAIR

---

“Coming to you live from Juniperus, we’re here to witness the entrance of the Goddess’ esteemed children. This evening marks the one thousand year old celebration of Her chosen–her Scions. Accompanied by their Templars, they are the last to appear, and once they’re in, the sermon will be given by Father Bachmeier. Stay tuned for an exclusive first look!”

The crackling of the television, old and well-loved like much else in the establishment, served an adequate accompaniment to Alasdair’s evening. How many of these ceremonies had he lived through? Too many, perhaps. There was pomp and ceremony every time a Goddess made her choice and left her mark on another soul, a raucous event to be streamed across every country on the continent for Her adoring public. A new champion to pick up the torch and continue leading them through the dark.

Would that they acknowledged such an event for what it was. For a new torch to light their way, another had to have flickered out and gone dark. It had not been so long ago that it was his light that guttered out, reduced to nothing more than smoldering embers and melancholy.

Perhaps that was why he spent the majority of the day crawling Juniperus for what the enclave’s pious population considered bars. There was an instinct in him, the sort that old soldiers carried with them, that told him to stay close to his Scion. These ceremonies, ‘essential’ as they were for the morale of the population, were more than just droll wastes of an evening. They were dangerous. Gathering up all of the Goddess’ chosen, their bodyguards, and the leadership of the Church and nearby Kingdoms in a single location was practically begging for some Kaudian fanatics to fall upon the cathedral in an attempt to decapitate the snake in one glorious, martyred swoop.

Most would probably dismiss such concerns as pessimistic paranoia. The Templars were a proud sort, he knew, for he too spent many a year as a man wicked in his pride. It was easy to feel invincible, clad in the best armor tithes could buy, the Goddess’ favor at your back, fattened on the power you siphoned from Her chosen and wielded in Her name. But where had that pride gotten him? Nowhere. It had blinded him—quite literally, in at least one way—to the real dangers of the world. If he hadn’t been so consumed by that invincibility, that arrogance, perhaps he would have been able to stop the tragedy that cost the Church one of its precious lights.

Maybe he could have saved her.

The sharp, herbal bite of the local’s favored elixir hit his taste buds and flooded his mouth with chill before he could linger on the thought for too long. It was a queer brew, one that tasted more like downing a mouthful of mouthwash than consuming anything worthwhile, but it served well enough. He could feel his cheeks warming and his mind fogging just enough to get through the night with each glass he put back. Other Templars had likely spent the day casing the venue, setting up perimeters, drilling for potentialities beyond their reckoning, or practicing their positions in the ceremony, depending on their temperament and general experience level. For him? This was good enough. Whatever the night held for them, whatever foolishness that followed this show of pageantry, he didn’t need to prevent an easily spotted calamity. The other Scions had their own keepers; he only needed to save one girl.

For however long that could last, given the circumstances.

The bartender filled the crystalware in his hand with dutiful familiarity, and Alasdair grunted his thanks, his good eye drifting towards the flickering screen as the cameras took in each arrival with splendor, soulless entertainers swarming around them like so many crows on carrion. Not much of it interested him, truthfully. He knew most of the cast on this star-studded carpet better than any half-assed interviewer was liable to, for better or for worse. It was only when the one he was meant to know best manifested that he straightened a fraction.

“You seem to wear the same outfits every time you meet the public. Is this a style you’re bringing into the mainstream? Are you giving your support to a particular designer?”

“It’s from a butcher’s supply store in Ornell. Hard to stain, easy to clean—it’s very convenient.”

A grumble in the back of his throat was all he could manage as he watched his charge make her grand entrance onto the stage with all the tact he had come to expect of her. The charisma, or lack thereof, wasn’t his concern, of course. Rather, she had already managed to reach the cathedral. That meant his evening festivities were coming to a close. Steeling himself against the almost sickeningly sweet kiss of menthol-infused liquor, Alasdair threw back his entire glass with all the stoutness expected of an Estoran Highlander and placed the glass down on the counter with a distinctive clink. The bartender reached for another pour, but a short shake of the head communicated that would be it for the night. Rising from his stool, the veteran Templar reached into his duster and produced a money clip of the local flavor. A generous wad ended up pressed into the surface of the bar as Alasdair swept up from his seat and made for the door, where his hat had hung for much of the evening.

“Wünsch mir Glück, lads.”

_

The heat in his cheeks seemed to be the only source to be found as Alasdair traversed this realm, both so foreign and familiar to him.

Putting the experience into words had evaded even his verbosity for years. Perspectives danced through his field of vision like so many ghostly projections upon a theater wall. He shifted this way and that, flattening across narrow, twisting cobblestone corridors, rising high in the wake of ornate street lights, dancing between the legs of giggling school girls and weary businessmen alike. He whirled through sights and sounds like a fish through ethereal water, an expert in this ephemeral realm of darkness. It felt like a lifetime ago when he had first felt its chill and known its disorienting swirl. His inebriation now paled in comparison to then. He had gotten sick shortly after emerging for the first time: she had laughed at that. Less so when it ended up on her shoes, of course, but he could still hear the high, musical giggle in his ears like the most nostalgic sort of tinnitus, here in the space between shadows. A stranger thing his heart had never yearned for, that magical moment. Would that he brought more Schnaps for the road.

Banal scenes of urban life quickly shifted to bright snaps of camera lenses and the glitter of jewels and fine silk, each sparkle sending his shifting world turbulent. He was close enough, he knew. He could practically feel her presence—a presence whose puissance allowed him to exist here at all—as it grew near. He could practically smell it, in fact. It was only when he was all but at his destination that he realized the reason for that.

_

A gasp was among the first sounds to reach Alasdair’s ears as he entered the world of the living once more. And then the raucous clammering and paparazzi and the blitz of cameras fell upon him like a wave. He couldn’t blame them for it, much as he liked to. It was not everyday the media was privy to Her miracles made reality. Were he a Templar of Fire or Light, perhaps he might have darkened even the sunset with his appearance. But the Shadows worked in more subtle ways.

For as subtle as his impossibly tall Estoran ass rising from the very shadow of his Scion like the reaper made flesh could be.

The abrupt nature of his arrival was what likely shocked them the most. Like a wraith, he manifested from the thinning wisp of darkness beneath Penne’s feet, filling the space there in the span of a heartbeat, as if he had simply stepped out of nowhere. In many ways, he had, of course, but the layman need not understand how that worked. They need only know that the guardian of Her Chosen of Shadows could be anywhere at any time he wished, wrapped in a raiment of holy darkness and ready to punish their most wicked sins. That was message enough for their highlight reels and gossip rags, for however true it was or was not.

Reaper-like though he was, as Alasdair looked down upon the diminutive figure of his charge, he did not wield a grand scythe with which to reap. Instead, in his gloved hand, he held the half-eaten remains of a sandwich, small bites working their way up half its length before its inglorious discarding. With all the severity of the reaper he was not, he brought the offending sandwich down in a sudden arc, just enough to smack Penne atop the head with it.

“You left this behind,” He murmured, half-scolding and half-weary, “And I told you to mind the pepperoncini. You’ll give yourself a stomachache.”

---

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

im a scholar and a gentleman, and i usually dont fall when i try to stand

ALASDAIR

________________________________________ Sir Alasdair Argyll MALE | 40 | ESTORA Templar of SHADOW _______________________________________________ "Bad men are full of repentance." ________________________________________

"Now, that's the fortunate thing. Turns out, I have two guns. One for each of you." Holy Sigil Location Right cheek Appearance Tall, broad-shouldered, and lean like a predator, Alasdair possesses an innately commanding figure, even before one considers his position within the Church or his reputation for recklessness. He carries himself with an easy, devil-may-care confidence and pride, his russet eyes doing little to veil the depths of his emotions, be it the regular glint of mischief, the adrenaline-drunk gleam of excitement in the face of conflict, or even uncharacteristically cold malice reserved for those who have earned his genuine wrath. His hair is a wild thing, a mane of auburn that threatens to stick this way and that, able to kiss his lower back when worn at its longest, though often kept in check by a length of valiant silk ribbon to keep its bulk contained. By contrast, his facial hair is rather neat and tidy, a fiery goatee that shields his chin against the elements. His skin is as pale and smooth, the sort of complexion earned by a man whose relationship with the sun could be described as tumultuous on its very best day. That is not to say that his flesh is unblemished, however. A lifetime of thrill-seeking has left him with no shortage of scar tissue and the stories that accompany it, the most prominent being the heavy shrapnel wounds which mar the right side of his face. Though it cannot be described as ostentatious, Alasdair’s wardrobe is befitting a man of his status. His button-up shirts are fine in their fabric, his dark trousers tailored for his long and lithe physique, and his boots cut from fine Lorenzian leather. While the underlying layers change as necessitated by season or climate, there do remain some familiar constants. Chief among them is his dark, ornamented duster, which has acted as his constant companion since his earliest days within the Ordo, and the matching wide-brimmed hat that has guarded him against the elements for just as long. After sustaining significant wounds fighting Kaudus in his youth, he also dons a half-mask on the right side of his face. Conveniently, this is also the place his Holy Sigil manifested—he considers it to be a sign of the Goddess’ humor, claiming it to have been kissed by her. Personality Stubborn, irresponsible, insubordinate, childish. The litany of descriptors assigned to Alasdair over the years paints a distinctly unkind picture of the man. Many of them, by his own admission, are warranted. He has always been a man ruled by his impulses and desires first and foremost, and even years wandering the continent have not broken him of his devil-may-care nature. Indeed, he considers his many sins to be some of his greatest strengths. Where one may see recklessness, he sees audaciousness; where some decry foolhardiness, he declares bravery. He is nothing less than the combination of his many flaws and their accompanying boons. Biography TLDR; noble brat leaves home, goes to explore world, becomes mercenary, gets his face blown off, comes to god, meets a girl, becomes a templar, hunts witches, discovers girl is a witch, kills girl-witch, is sad, finds new girl (no smooch). Born the eldest son of the Earl of Blairmore, it was Alasdair’s fate to follow in the footsteps of his forefathers and take over stewardship of the meadows and marshlands that made up their ancestral lands. For generations, his people served as stalwart defenders of their remote stretch of border march, fending off incursions from Doumerc and Veradis in the years before Unification by the strength of their will and arms. Were such a fate to await him, perhaps Alasdair may well have stayed with his kin. But he was not cut from the cloth of an administrator of pasture and paddock: his fate was that of a bolder sort. It was of little surprise, then, that on the eve of his majority, Alasdair forsook his inheritance, insisting the family’s estate be instead given to his younger brother. He packed all that he could, bid farewell to his mother—for his father had no more words for such an ungrateful, feckless son—and set off to explore the world beyond the idyllic highlands that he knew as home. Inevitably, that exploration led him towards the eastern borders of the Estoran Federation. Weapon of Choice Custom-made, high-caliber handguns loaded with explosive ammunition for the purposes of shock and awe. He has also been known to make reckless use of a variety of explosive or otherwise volatile devices. Misc. "You can have it all, my empire of dirt..." The rest put into bullets for a clean look Or do what you want I ain't a cop.

{ ᴀ ᴛʀᴀɪʟ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ & ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ }

Indra, please for the sake of my sanity, stop being a weirdo. 😭

@mickilennial

don't listen to them live your truth king

[IC] A Song of Ice and Fire: A Gilded Throne

Wardens of the Glade: A Light Fantasy RP

Ynga

Location — The Grand City of Atutania

Interacting — @Yankee

---

Oh. Oh goodness. It seemed as though the young man did not take her feedback as well as she had hoped.

That wasn't especially surprising, in hindsight; most people didn't like being reminded of their failures. Even Ynga sometimes struggled with the criticisms that accompanied a long day of training, of the ways she had failed to live up to her potential, or made a mistake that would have been costly on the actual battlefield. But she had been so excited by her new surroundings, by the trials themselves, that she forgot herself for a moment and offended the poor fellow. He didn't even want to be wind-buddies with her any longer.

... Not that he could be any magic buddy at all, though. That came as something of a shock to the little Nordavind. She had come south to learn sorcery firsthand from the Wardens. That initiates could apply for this organization of magical knight-heroes without having tapped into their wellspring of mana didn't make a lot of sense to her, in that context. Maybe there was an expedited way to awaken one's abilities in the trials? That would certainly be something worth learning; magic was a decisive force in combat, and the ability to produce more warriors who could call upon the elements would be a boon to any world power.

There were more pressing matters to attend to than geopolitical upheaval, though. The dark-skinned gentleman before her seemed rather cross with her assessment, demanding an explanation of her thoughts. Though she had all but wilted like a flower in the face of his earlier rejection, put on the spot as she was now, she danced back and forth from foot to foot, suddenly put on the spot. How was she supposed to phrase this? Grandfather would certainly know how to cut to the heart of the matter, but Ynga had always struggled to be as forthcoming as her patriarch. He had a habit of coming off as more cruel than he truly was.

"Well, it's just... spears are meant to be used from afar, right? But you never leveraged that advantage, not really, anyway. If you had focused on keeping your distance from him, he should have never had the opportunity to land a hit on you at all. And he landed quite a few hits on you, so..." She had to resist the urge to fiddle with her hands nervously, which just led to her holding her hands vaguely apart, fingers wiggling as she tried to explain as gently as she could, "Given the weapon he was using, letting him close on you like that was a sure-fire way to get bludgeoned, y'know... to death. The kicking was sorta neat, though! But I don't think you've got the right... ahm... build? To do much damage with just kicks. Not without magic, which you... you don't have. So..."

Looking away from the very, very interesting pebbles scattered across their field took a working of willpower, but when she did bring her eyes up to meet the young man's, she managed a sheepish smile beneath furrowed brows and sympathetic gaze.

"You tried your best, though! And that's all that really matters, right?"

Wardens of the Glade: A Light Fantasy RP

Ynga

Location — The Grand City of Atutania

Interacting — @Yankee

---

"Did what hurt?"

Was she not clear enough for him? Or, perhaps, she had offended him by bringing up an uncomfortable memory. Ynga could only imagine how much it would have hurt to have one's skin burned enough to blacken like that. Her eyes widened at the notion that she might have called to memory such a thing, completely oblivious to her misunderstanding of the situation. No sooner than she parted her lips to free him from the obligation of answering, however, he spoke again, intercepting her concern before it could even truly manifest.

"Never mind, do not answer. I have something more important to attend to."

Well, that certainly answered that! It made her heart ache just a little that conversation with her was not important enough to prioritize, but it had been she who had made the faux pas of bringing attention to the older gentleman's scars. Time apart would give her some time to come up with a suitable apology, and perhaps, away from the sting of her words, he might rally himself and be more willing to discuss his queer appearance with her. Or so she hoped.

If nothing else, she would have entertainment in the interim. The two initiates rounded into the sparring arena, and Ynga wasted little time hefting her minuscule weight up onto the fence that surrounded the hastily erected ring, settling cat-like onto a wooden beam set between two supporting posts. To hear it told, the combat arts of the southern kingdoms were as diverse as the appearances of their peoples. She hadn't the faintest clue where either of these young men hailed from, but watching them firsthand would allow her to better understand the styles of their respective homelands. If her grandsire were present, he would also stress to her the importance of memorizing what she saw to derive countermeasures, she was sure. The Nordavind patriarch could be a mistrustful man, but Ynga was positive she wouldn't have to bear her blade against those who also wished to walk the path of the Wardens.

... A fortune thing for them, she realized, as she watched the bout unfold. It was unfair of her to be judgemental, of course. There were bound to be differences between the types of fighting she had been drilled on by way of her grandfather's huscarls. Maybe sacrificing the advantage of reach with the spear was a hallmark of the southern peoples, instead bludgeoning their opponents with the blunt end of the shaft and letting opponents press themselves to its length. Perhaps the shield was taboo, among the more aristocratic warriors of the south, who cast aside their defenses to better display their chivalric spirit. She'd have to ask about that later as well. Hopefully, it would go over better than her initial inquiries.

Differences in philosophy aside, Ynga found herself thoroughly caught up in the magic of the clash, especially when actual magic entered the fold. She whooped from the sidelines as the paler of the two summoned forth a blanket of ice to encase his opponent's weapon, knowing well she would have struggled in kind to counteract that sort of ploy, her element being what it was. It'd be a good experience, testing her mettle against the mace wielder and his frosty sorcery. There was no shortage of ice-aspected warriors in her homeland, of course, but the methods of her people were less subtle than those employed by her would-be compatriot in the Wardens.

As exciting as the match was, all good things eventually came to an end. An instructor called for the two to break apart from each other, and they seemed to do so amicably. With the bout having come to a close, a choice fell to Ynga: who to pursue next? The spellcraft of the pale man intrigued her, certainly, and yet the burnt man held his own mystique; he hadn't used a single instance of his magic in the entirety of the fight. Was he holding back? Afraid of revealing his tricks too soon, lest there be mock battles as part of the trials ahead of them? It was difficult for Ynga to hide her disappointment; she had come to Atutania to hone her sorcery in ways that could not be accomplished in Ienarich. Every opportunity to experience it here felt like a loss in its own right. So, when she spotted him making his way away from the arena, she was swift in hopping up to stand astride the fence. With a graceful leap, she landed atop each of the posts leading down its length, buoyed by an invisible force so each footfall she made was feather light, bounding from foothold to foothold until she was just about upon him. When she reached him, she leaped free from the fence and landed with all the grace of a crane, flashing a bright smile.

"You lost!" Her declaration came with the same chipper, sing-song tone she always used, as if the notion didn't bother her in the least, "But you probably wouldn't have, if you hadn't held back. You were pretty evenly matched until he used his magic! Why didn't you use your own?"

It hadn't occurred to her to ponder, too deeply, the reasons behind his restraint. She had considered holding something back for the trials, of course, but as she formed the words, an idea seemed to swirl within her mind. Bright eyes grew even brighter as she made the realization, and before she knew it, more words were spilling out of her, right on the heels of the ones before them.

"Oh! I know! You were probably worried about elemental incompatibility, weren't you? I completely understand! I'm wind-aspected too! But it's not as insurmountable as they make it out to be—you might not win in a direct clash, but wind is so versatile that we'll never need to just blast right through ice!"

Finally, some common ground to make up for their rocky start!

Wardens of the Glade: A Light Fantasy RP

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?"

Hell on Earth - Detectives in a Supernatural and Demonic City

Am I interested?

Wardens of the Glade: A Light Fantasy RP

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.

Wardens of the Glade: A Light Fantasy RP

Y N G A
Y N G A

^{“Oh! Uhm, hello! I'm Ynga. I've never really been this far south before, so... I hope we can get along!”}

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________ Ynga Nordavind is a scion of House Nordavind and the granddaughter of Ienarich's current High Chieftain, Yngvar Nordavind. Despite her sweet, unassuming nature, she is the most promising sorcerer to rise from her lineage in the last century, something her grandsire hopes to exploit to carve greater in-roads with the nations of Lacorron by way of entry into the Order of the Glade. Age: 15 Race: Human Nationality: Ienarich Weapon of Choice: Sword Elemental Affinity: Wind Spiritual Affinity: Light

C H A R A C T E R B I O G R A P H Y C H A R A C T E R B I O G R A P H Y ________________________________________________________________________________________ “I can still remember the first time I ever left the hold. I had just turned seven years old, and grandfather finally agreed to take me out to see our lands.” Ynga came into the world as many of her family did—amidst the crackling of logs and the howling of the winter winds. A daughter of the Nordavind family, who had served as the wardens of untamed Ienarich since the passing of Ienar himself. A sweet and bashful child from the outset, she was not as steely as the elder brother who came before her, neither as willful and wild as the younger to follow. Though hers were a harsh and proud people, born from the struggles of life in Ienarich's dense wilderness and across its rolling tundra, her earliest memories were ones of warmth and love. It was often that she would toddle behind her mother's skirts as she made her rounds around the hold and down into Ienarhald itself, wide-eyed and full of wonder at the sights and sounds, or sat at her grandfather's foot in his solar above the great hall, listening to the old, grizzled lord of all that was the north regale her with stories of their ancestors and their heroics, for Ienarich could not prosper without heroes, both great and small, such were the burdens of life upon its frontier. “We walked for what must have been an hour before we were far enough from home to be by our lonesome. Just us and the fir trees and the big, blue sky. I loved it. It was so... beautiful.” A life that her family, for all that they loved and doted upon her, saw her unfit for. She was a sweet girl, of that much all could agree, and kind, and earnest, always looking to help buoy the spirits of the other children whenever they'd fall into tantrums of doldrums. But she never had a stomach for the harsher things in life, wailing whenever it'd come time to cull the herds in preparation for the winters to come, or else wise dispatch those animals no longer fit for service. The time would eventually come that she would be a girl no longer, and she would need to face the world beyond the great palisades of their familial hold. Once her grandfather and father passed, Ienarich would fall into the good, sensible hands of her elder brother, and she would need to be sent to wed a man of good standing who'd keep her in comfort until she could start a family of her own, and nurture them as they knew she would well. “Then, very suddenly, grandfather drew me so close I could smell the woodsmoke on his furs. Then he gestured with one of his huge hands. ‘Look, little dove,’ he said, so quiet I could hardly hear him, ‘But don't make a sound.’ Along the bank of the creek was something I'd only heard of in stories and songs; a big, burly brown bear, with three little cubs at her heels.” But that did not satisfy young Ynga. She had been told from her earliest days that she was the blood of Ienar the North Wind, who brought law to the lands at the crown of the world when there was none. Letting her brothers take over the hold, and lead their people, was all well and good for her, yes. Andri seemed to have an answer for everything, and everyone seemed to think Magnus would grow to be a warrior even the greater of their grandsire. But to sit idly by, tending little more than a hearth and her children? It felt wrong. Ienarich was a place of great hardship, the songs assured her, where everyone needed do their part. How could she rest in comfort at her husband's side while so many struggled and fought to eke out a living in the hills and amidst the fjords? “It didn't seem to notice us, too focused on the rushing water. Then, with a paw that made even grandfather's hands look small, it swiped into the stream and brought up a big, fat fish. I watched it drag the fish, flopping and thrashing, to the shore. When it bit into the fish, bright, gooey red marbles started to squirt out of it—Andri told me earlier that year that those are what fish babies looked like before they could swim. The mother and her cubs made a meal of it all.” But there was nothing she could do to convince them otherwise. What was she to do? Become some great shield-maiden, and sail down the river Breein with her brothers and uncles when the seasons turned and the fields became too crusted in hoarfrost to yield grain? She could hardly stand the sight of lambs going to slaughter. How would she fare when made to hunt along the river's shores on campaign? Or when the men needed to tend to the grim work of sending southerners to the same place the lambs had gone? The warriors of Ienarich may have been valiant heroes in her songs and her stories, but in the lands beyond her grandfather's kingdom, they were known to bring with them only death and destruction in return for that which filled Itenaian or Giellnalian coffers. “I remember being terribly upset. Once we had gotten well away from the bear, I asked grandfather, ‘How can the bear do that to the poor fish? Doesn't she know it was a mother too? Those were her babies!’ It wasn't often you could make out much on grandfather's face. He had seen enough winters that nothing seemed to upset him anymore. But to this day, I can still see the sadness that crept into the corner of his eyes when he spoke. ‘Because that's the way of the world, little dove,’ He told me, more sad that I needed it explained than for the poor fish, ‘Best you learn it now, while you're still young.’” The songs and stories had done enough to teach her the way of it, though. If words couldn't win the day, then the only thing for it was action. In the rugged north, those young folks who meant to claim themselves adults were expected to prove it to their community before it could be so. As autumn came to a close and winter loomed ahead, when a boy or girl thought themselves ready to be called a man or woman, they would head off into the wilderness for a time. Often it was a single day, sometimes longer, but rarely more than a week. They'd use what their mothers and fathers taught them to make it through the long, cold night, prove they were more than capable of handling themselves, and return triumphant, sometimes with trophies of beasts or monsters slain during their journey. Some would even return with something more precious than hides or fangs: some returned with magic, awakened through the hardship of the experience. Those who claimed such a prize typically rose to positions of prominence. Most Ienarians set out on such a journey after having seen fifteen, perhaps sixteen winters. Ynga was a girl of eleven when she packed her sack with salt beef and tinder and set out from the hold one chilly evening with one of the armory's swords tucked under her furs. “That was the way of the world. Mother and child devouring mother and child. I think that was the first time I realized it—realized the world was a truly wicked place. The big ate the small. The strong beat the weak. The natural order of things was one of cruelty. I didn't like that.” By the time her family's huskarls realized she had vanished from her chambers, it was too late. She was already well off into the wilds to the north of Ienarhald. She would prove herself to them all. Prove that she was just as capable of helping their people survive, no, thrive in their homeland. She would make Ienarich just a little brighter than it had been when she found it, just as she made the halls of her grandfather's hold just that little bit brighter with her wide smiles and laughter. It would simply take a different sort of work to make it so. The search parties dispatched in her wake followed her tracks into the treeline by the time the sun dipped down low beyond the horizon, but had little hope of continuing by the light of the moon. There was nothing to do but wait. “I wanted the world to be gentler. I wanted the world to be... kinder. But what was I to do? I was just a silly little girl sniffling over a fish and its roe, and the world had little patience for silly little girls with such silly woes.” When morning came, they continued, searching high and low for the lost lamb of Nordavind. By the time the sunset on the second day, the grim reality of what likely happened set in. Even still, Yngvar Nordavind was not a man to so easily give in. They would continue to search for his little dove until they found her, or whatever might well have been left of her. The search went on for three days, then four, and then five. Her father returned to Ienarich to console his wife, but still, the huskarls continued their thankless work, looking for tracks along an expanse of trees and rocks that seemed to continue without end. By the time dusk fell upon the seventh day of searching, even the resolve of the High Chieftain had begun to falter. Even more seasoned members of the kingdom would be hard-pressed to survive for so long, so far from civilization, with such little preparation. The weather would soon enough turn on them. It was unlikely Ynga was to return. Until, by the light of the retinue's cookfires, later that night, a pink-faced child with dark curls and big, bright eyes came upon them from the brush, and on her heels, two others. “When I got a little older, I realized there was only one thing to be done about it. If the world was such a cruel place, ruled by the strong, for the strong, then there was only one way for me to bring about the change I wanted to see.” Two other boys who had gotten lost on their own trial, little Ynga explained as if nothing in the world was wrong. She had found them a few days into her trek, and followed them further into the wilds, hoping to find friendly faces. When she instead met with another party fast on their trail—a pair of dire-wolves eager to fill their bellies in advance of the cold to come—she did as she had been told that great heroes were meant to do when monsters skulked in the dark and preyed upon innocent folk. She slew them both and carried on to try and bring the boys back to Ienarhald before something even bigger tracked them down. The uproar that followed her incredulous tale might have done a better job drawing such beasts than the plodding of a few beardless youths. Anger, disbelief, relief, and more. Ygna caught quite the scolding for her foolishness, for the tall tale she had so proudly declared, but when the boys echoed her sentiment, and her bloodied blade bore the scars of their claws and fangs, it became clear that the little dove of the Nordavind family had become more akin to some great eagle in absence of their notice. Answering her call in the face of such overwhelming odds, sorcery had coated the girl's blade as it had in the case of their honored ancestor, and carried by the north winds which now poured from the tempest of her soul, Ynga's future quickly shifted from one of inglorious kindness to one of true consequence. “Like Itena, and Haur, and Antes and Ienar all, I'd make the world a better place with my own two hands. I'd make up a sweeter, gentler story for the people of Lacorron, writ in the only language the world understands.” The years that followed were difficult, but satisfying all the same. Rather than spend her time by the fire, sewing and simmering, Ynga joined her brothers outside in the training yard. She learned from the huskarls how to wield weapons of war, how to track great beasts, and how to wield her gift against those who would harm her vision of what the world could be. Of what it should be. When it became clear her aptitude for sorcery exceeded even the more experienced of her Grandfather's warriors, it was decided the Ienarich was an unsuitable place to hone her further. If she meant to become a great hero, her grandsire reasoned, then it would only be suitable that she go to the place where the heroes of old were made: the Order of the Glade. It was a few months after her fifteenth year that correspondence from Atutania came, inviting the young Nordavind to test her mettle and see whether she was truly cut from the cloth of greatness so claimed. She set out only days later, with little more than talent and dreams of a better world to her name. C H A R A C T E R I Z A T I O N C H A R A C T E R I Z A T I O N ________________________________________________________________________________________ Astute ⬗ Brave ⬗ Cheerful ⬗ Compassionate ⬗ Idealistic ⬗ Stalwart A B I L I T I E S A B I L I T I E S ________________________________________________________________________________________ For someone of her age, Ynga is a rather accomplished young woman. A true scion of the north, she is a skilled survivalist, capable of making camp, foraging food and supplies, following tracks, and leaving little of her own in turn. She knows how to sew both cloth and wound, which plants are good for eating and which for fever and sickness, and how to break a path for those of her friends who are not so accomplished outdoors. Her skills as a fighter are no less honed. While her sweet, caring demeanor might lead one to believe she is a merciful combatant, nothing could be further from the truth. She has been trained by the finest warriors of Ienarich, a kingdom renowned for the skill and ferocity of its soldiers of fortune. Ynga has learned how to wield axe and knife and spear and shield, as any of her grandfather's huskarls might do, though she holds a special, child-like reverence for the sword above all else—for the sword was the weapon of Itena and the many greats who followed in her example, a weapon of a hero before a warrior. The similarities between her and Itena begin and end there, however, as Ynga's way of fighting is one steeped far deeper in pragmatism than honor. She fights with sword and knife as much as tooth and claw in the heat of the moment, throwing elbows and kicks and dirt and whatever else might bring her to a swifter, more efficient victory, reasoning that all battle is inherently cruel, and it is all the better to bring it to the quickest end possible, when it must be had. Though she has only studied it for a short time, Ynga is accomplished enough in the usage of sorcery. Her application is one familiar to those warriors of the Ienarich, known to bedeck themselves in the elements that dominate their souls. The wind produced by Ynga's magic acts as a cloak about her, buoying her steps such that she might walk upon freshly fallen snow without sinking. It carries her limbs as she dashes about and slashes this way and that, lending inordinate speed and strength to the swings of her blade and the impact of her boot upon those who oppose her. In time, she's managed to grow adept at wrapping it around the length of her blade, the shearing force of her mana lending strength to the cutting edge of her weapon, and she's even begun to experiment with surging this razor-thin aura at the peak of her swings, extending her reach for the half-heartbeat it takes to cut her enemy, before shrinking back down to preserve her strength. One can only theorize how her mastery might grow under the watchful eye of the Order.

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