An Outsider

Fog of Torvelt

Gentle

---

The day was going bad enough without throwing the stink of rotting meat into the mix. Gentle thumb a soaking forelock out of his eyes, wondering if he could get away with plugging his nostrils with grass when he noticed the pony's terrified looking stance. Rotting meat doesn't scare horses. He took several more deep sniffs, but couldn't work out what the stink belonged to.

"Gentle! Please tell me that's not what Minotaur shite smells like!" The dwarf distracted him. He was still trying to lock onto the queer scent when he responded absentmindedly "Only after we eat dwarves. The rest of the time the scent is quite pleasant", shortly after that someone yelled troll, and Gentle's humour soured even more.

He'd never met a troll before. Had never wanted to. By all reports they had a worse reputation than Minotaur's, which was akin to winning an award for sheer bastardy. He'd heard they were hard to kill. He guessed he was about to find out just how true that was.

Kill. By the God's, he'd really hoped he was finished with killing, but it looked like this old bull still had to put down a few more matadors. Wasn't like he could still get this quest finished and do the God's proud while being digested in a trolls gullet, and if he'd heard right diplomacy rarely worked with these monsters.

He gripped his staff tight - not quite willing to draw the sword on his back yet, still scared of the 'taur he became when that hilt was in his hand - and stepped forward to stand alongside the human, on the opposite side of the dwarf. The little bastard was screaming out taunts, and Gentle couldn't help but respect him for it. His hoof stamped in the dirt a couple of times while he tried to quell what he told himself was fear, but he actually knew was excitement.

"You fight these things before?" He asked the axe-wielding human. Frail he might be, but he at least looked experienced, and handled that axe like a veteran. Gentle wouldn't like to sip from the same cup as him, but he trusted the man could fight. "They like to set traps?" He gestured off to their right. There was a riot's worth of noise coming from the left, but while Gentle knew next to fuck all about trolls, he had some experience with ambushes. If he was in the attackers position he'd make a lot of noise from one side, while assaulting silently from the other. Nothing wins a battle quite as fast as making the other guy look in the wrong direction while you stabbed him in the back.

DC Universe: Genesis - Justice For All

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L

WONDER WOMAN

---

^{_{Diana of Themiscrya ♦ Unemployed ♦ London ♦ Unaffiliated}}

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

---

^{"The Blade itself incites to deeds of violence."}

Millennia ago the Amazons stood as one of the God’s chosen people on earth, a high standard for all others to aim for. Their warriors were mighty, their philosophers wise, and their artists could inspire such emotion that they almost challenged the Muse's themselves. So when the Olympians realised that their time of primacy over the mortals was coming to an end they tasked the Amazonians with choosing one amongst their number to step forth and become humanities champion, a hero that would protect Prometheus favorite children when the God's where gone. Realising the enormity of the task, and the importance of the role, the greatest of the Amazons stepped forward to be chosen. It was decreed that a great contest would be held, and the winner would become the Wonderous Woman that the God’s where seeking for. Among the many prospective contestants was Diana, daughter of the Amazon’s queen, Hippolyta.

At first Hippolyta forbade the young Princess from competing, stating that due to her youth Diana did not have the requisite experience for the role. However, Diana beseeched the Gods to intervene on her behalf, and together Grey-Eyed Athena, Foam-Kissed Aphrodite, Dew-Fingered Demeter and Stern-Willed Hera manage to convince the Amazonian queen to allow her daughter to compete. The games lasted two weeks, but eventually Diana stood triumphant.

The Olympians assembled to witness her great victory, and soon after combined their might to transform the young Princess into a statue of magical clay, such that she will remain until humanity has greatest need of her. The statue of Diana was transported onto the mainland of Greece, and there she stood, sleeping through the centuries while the fate of the God’s and her Amazonian sisters faded from the ken of man.

Eventually Diana’s statue was discovered and transported to London, where she was installed into the British Museum. Several generations passed while she remained petrified, little more than an interesting diversion for half-bored tourists. And then, something changed. All of a sudden, and with know idea as to why, Diana awakes, ready to meet whatever evil it is that threatens mankind, but unsure as to which evil it is she should be facing.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

---

While I write this CS my new daughter sleeps in her crib not five feet from my me. I think of her, and all the things that I can’t wait to share with her as she gets older. All of my passions that I hope one day become hers. Classic rock, Lord of the Rings, writing, the MCU, mountain climbing, revivalist blues, boxing, cooking, video games, annoying her mother, and of course comic books. That’s where this Wonder Woman concept and the story I have planned for her has come from. I thought about what kind of story I hope my daughter will one day enjoy, the kind of tale that would hopefully light the passion in her that we all share, maybe have her saying "I want to be like Wonder Woman", or maybe even inspire her to write her own stories. That's what I thought about, and that's what I’m setting out to write. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll even tell it to her.

I’m not going to change much about Wondie’s backstory, at least not the obvious stuff. She’s still going to be a Princess of the Amazons, she’ll still journey into Man’s World and discover herself there. Probably the only real noticeable change will be that she was actually born during the Classical Greek Period and has been transported through time to our present day. I want to use this to explore the evolution of heroism, namely what the ancient Greeks found just and moral, and what we do. Through that exploration I’d like to see Diana develop from a warrior princess into the world’s premier heroine. I want to have her interact with Steve Trevor, Etta Candy, Ares, and Cheetah, Superman, Batman, and all the rest of your characters, and see how those experiences change her.

As far as inspiration goes, I’m dipping into a few sources. Greg Rucka and Brian Azzarello for sure, the recent movie version, the Iliad, Odyssey, and a few other ancient poems. My biggest inspiration might actually be Steven Fry’s books about Greek Mythology though. I think his efforts in humanising the larger than life figures from Greek Mythology would be quite interesting applied to the larger than life figures of the DC Pantheon, so hopefully I’m equal to the task.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

---

None at present.

S A M P L E P O S T:

---

_Then

The swords came together with a metal song, sparks dancing as the blades scraped against one another. The two warriors grunted as their bodies slammed together, each jostling for position, twisting like furious polecats. Diana growled through gritted teeth, grabbing for the other’s wrist, attempting to force her opponents’ blade away and leave her defenceless. Her rival was too cunning a warrior to fall for such simple tricks though. A lifetime of experience provides tricks that youthful confidence struggles to contend with. The grip was reversed, Diana feeling the ground fly from under her feet as she was thrown bodily over the other warrior’s shoulder. She slammed onto the warm sand floor, treacherous breath fleeing her body like cowards from a battle when the tide turns against them. Before Diana could make another move her opponent’s sword tapped against her throat.

“Yield.” She was commanded. A fool’s command. Amazonians do not yield. Her sword was just out of reach, but as good as miles away. The sand though, that was close enough. Just as the plan formed itself in her mind the sword at her throat shifted, almost imperceptibly, pressing down harder, a silent warning. A glance at her opponents’ cold eyes could neither confirm nor deny that she had divined Diana’s plan. She almost stopped then, the fear that she had been out-gambited enough to turn her muscles to marble. Could she risk it, and lose all? No, her spirit wilted. She was beaten, and the only thing left was to admit it.

Winning isn’t just about what you stand to gain, but also about what you are willing to sacrifice. The wisdom of Grey-Eyed Athena flooded her senses, providing mettle to stiffen a wilting resolve. She had to stand now, or risk eternity on her knees. The price would be worth it, come what may.

Snake-swift she lashed out, one hand grabbing the tip of her foes weapon, sharp steel cutting into calloused skin, sudden punishment for her desperate gambit. Victory had to paid for, and with the God’s grace that would be all the payment required. A flash of surprise in her enemy’s eyes was early reward, though the expression soured further when a fistful of grit struck her heavily. A moment it bought her, and nothing more, but Diana promised that she would not waste it. With a jerk she heaved her foe’s sword aside, feeling the steel bite deeper.

Use it roared battle-proud Ares, let it fuel you! Let nothing stop you! To this command, she would listen.

A sudden surge and Diana kicked out, stealing her opponents balance out from under her. An eager cry, and she was rising to her feet, letting go of the sword that ruined skin, and struck a titanic blow to the enemy. Was that a joyous clap of thunder she heard, soft in the distance? No time to think, press forward, forward, forward. She felt rather than observed her foes counterblow. Diana's bracelets, victory captured in God worked metal, moved like a silver blur. Another crash of thunder, this time accompanied by a rain of broken steel. Amazonian swords did not break easy, but they did break, it seemed. Her rival looked on in sickened horror, but Diana was moving too fast to notice, spinning around the arm that once held a sword that just moments ago had threatened to ruin her far-soaring dreams. Like a dancer, she pirouetted around her foe, left petrified in Diana’s wake. With ease that bordered on divine, the Amazonian princess hooked her hands under her opponent’s armpits, and a quick heave rolled the dumbfounded enemy across her hips and forced her onto the ground, face pressed into the sand. Diana quickly positioned her knee across her foes back, stretching one captured arm out at an obscene angle.

“Yield” She commanded. She expected the fight to continue. Amazonians do not yield. She readied herself to have to visit some terrible ruin upon the warrior beneath her that would end the fight conclusively. She was wrong. The woman beneath her went limp, the surrender sudden. One moment they fought as enemies, the next they were conquered and conqueror. It was probably the swiftness of the transformation that left Diana with the most questions.

“I yield. Let me up daughter.” A moment longer and they were no longer conquered and conquereor, but mother and daughter, facing each other in the open Amphitheater of Hera. They were alone, Hippolyta allowing no spectators to this, the final round in the competition to discover which Amazon would stand champion over mankind. At first Diana had been livid that there would be no audience for her grand victory. Now she understood her mothers reasons, and felt nothing but regret for fighting her so hard in even that minor decree. This moment had been just for they alone.

Alone except for the God's. To watch was their right.

There is beauty in all things. Even in this. Especially in this. The creamy-smooth voice of foam-washed Aphrodite was like being woken with a kiss. Gentle, soft, and undeniably there. And she was right, there was a beauty here, but it was a cold, final kind of beauty. Someone had to lose for Diana to win. This, she realised, was the true price to be paid for victory. The hurt in her hand had already begun to heal, tortured flesh knitting swiftly together. The hurt this moment caused her mother never would. With a suddenness that matched the ending of their contest Diana understood she was about to sacrifice something perfect. Something irreplaceable.

"I am sorry, Mother"

"So am I, Daughter. So am I."

_Now

Doctor Barbara Anne Minerva listened to the tale the beautiful young woman in front of her wove with rapt attention and an open mouth. It all sounded so fantastic, in all the worst kind of ways. Amazons? Swordfights? Gods? What was this, a bad Game of Thrones rip-off? She would have dismissed it as nothing more than the delusions of a mad woman, if said woman hadn’t been a clay statue standing in the British Museum less than two hours ago. Maybe she was the mad woman. It was a few moments before Barbara had the wherewithal to respond.

“And that was the last time you seen your mother, your home?” A nod was all the response she got, Diana hugging herself tightly, seemingly distracted by her old ghosts. Or maybe she was just cold. She was dressed in little better than a towel, and Barbara’s office wasn’t the warmest. After they were finished here she’d see if she could find the young woman something cosier in the lost and found. First she had to figure out what to do with the supposed-Amazonian.

“So you’re here to … what … fight some great evil that threatens humanity?”

“Yes, Barbara Anne Minerva. That is my task.” That left just one more question to ask.

“So … What evil?” Diana looked towards her, her eyes big and bright and vulnerable, and in that moment Barbara really could believe she was an ancient princess who had lost everything she had once known and loved to the slow, forward march of the centuries.

“I don’t know.”

P O S T C A T A L O G:

---

A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed arcs and stories.

DC Universe: Genesis - Justice For All

Sorry Andy. Seems you can't have any nice things without people trying to snatch them out your hands.

Gowi's Imaginary Friend

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L

WONDER WOMAN

---

^{_{Diana of Themiscrya ♦ Unemployed ♦ London ♦ Unaffiliated}}

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

---

^{"The Blade itself incites to deeds of violence."}

Millennia ago the Amazons stood as one of the God’s chosen people on earth, a high standard for all others to aim for. Their warriors were mighty, their philosophers wise, and their artists could inspire such emotion that they almost challenged the Muse's themselves. So when the Olympians realised that their time of primacy over the mortals was coming to an end they tasked the Amazonians with choosing one amongst their number to step forth and become humanities champion, a hero that would protect Prometheus favorite children when the God's where gone. Realising the enormity of the task, and the importance of the role, the greatest of the Amazons stepped forward to be chosen. It was decreed that a great contest would be held, and the winner would become the Wonderous Woman that the God’s where seeking for. Among the many prospective contestants was Diana, daughter of the Amazon’s queen, Hippolyta.

At first Hippolyta forbade the young Princess from competing, stating that due to her youth Diana did not have the requisite experience for the role. However, Diana beseeched the Gods to intervene on her behalf, and together Grey-Eyed Athena, Foam-Kissed Aphrodite, Dew-Fingered Demeter and Stern-Willed Hera manage to convince the Amazonian queen to allow her daughter to compete. The games lasted two weeks, but eventually Diana stood triumphant.

The Olympians assembled to witness her great victory, and soon after combined their might to transform the young Princess into a statue of magical clay, such that she will remain until humanity has greatest need of her. The statue of Diana was transported onto the mainland of Greece, and there she stood, sleeping through the centuries while the fate of the God’s and her Amazonian sisters faded from the ken of man.

Eventually Diana’s statue was discovered and transported to London, where she was installed into the British Museum. Several generations passed while she remained petrified, little more than an interesting diversion for half-bored tourists. And then, something changed. All of a sudden, and with know idea as to why, Diana awakes, ready to meet whatever evil it is that threatens mankind, but unsure as to which evil it is she should be facing.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

---

While I write this CS my new daughter sleeps in her crib not five feet from my me. I think of her, and all the things that I can’t wait to share with her as she gets older. All of my passions that I hope one day become hers. Classic rock, Lord of the Rings, writing, the MCU, mountain climbing, revivalist blues, boxing, cooking, video games, annoying her mother, and of course comic books. That’s where this Wonder Woman concept and the story I have planned for her has come from. I thought about what kind of story I hope my daughter will one day enjoy, the kind of tale that would hopefully light the passion in her that we all share, maybe have her saying "I want to be like Wonder Woman", or maybe even inspire her to write her own stories. That's what I thought about, and that's what I’m setting out to write. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll even tell it to her.

I’m not going to change much about Wondie’s backstory, at least not the obvious stuff. She’s still going to be a Princess of the Amazons, she’ll still journey into Man’s World and discover herself there. Probably the only real noticeable change will be that she was actually born during the Classical Greek Period and has been transported through time to our present day. I want to use this to explore the evolution of heroism, namely what the ancient Greeks found just and moral, and what we do. Through that exploration I’d like to see Diana develop from a warrior princess into the world’s premier heroine. I want to have her interact with Steve Trevor, Etta Candy, Ares, and Cheetah, Superman, Batman, and all the rest of your characters, and see how those experiences change her.

As far as inspiration goes, I’m dipping into a few sources. Greg Rucka and Brian Azzarello for sure, the recent movie version, the Iliad, Odyssey, and a few other ancient poems. My biggest inspiration might actually be Steven Fry’s books about Greek Mythology though. I think his efforts in humanising the larger than life figures from Greek Mythology would be quite interesting applied to the larger than life figures of the DC Pantheon, so hopefully I’m equal to the task.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

---

None at present.

S A M P L E P O S T:

---

_Then

The swords came together with a metal song, sparks dancing as the blades scraped against one another. The two warriors grunted as their bodies slammed together, each jostling for position, twisting like furious polecats. Diana growled through gritted teeth, grabbing for the other’s wrist, attempting to force her opponents’ blade away and leave her defenceless. Her rival was too cunning a warrior to fall for such simple tricks though. A lifetime of experience provides tricks that youthful confidence struggles to contend with. The grip was reversed, Diana feeling the ground fly from under her feet as she was thrown bodily over the other warrior’s shoulder. She slammed onto the warm sand floor, treacherous breath fleeing her body like cowards from a battle when the tide turns against them. Before Diana could make another move her opponent’s sword tapped against her throat.

“Yield.” She was commanded. A fool’s command. Amazonians do not yield. Her sword was just out of reach, but as good as miles away. The sand though, that was close enough. Just as the plan formed itself in her mind the sword at her throat shifted, almost imperceptibly, pressing down harder, a silent warning. A glance at her opponents’ cold eyes could neither confirm nor deny that she had divined Diana’s plan. She almost stopped then, the fear that she had been out-gambited enough to turn her muscles to marble. Could she risk it, and lose all? No, her spirit wilted. She was beaten, and the only thing left was to admit it.

Winning isn’t just about what you stand to gain, but also about what you are willing to sacrifice. The wisdom of Grey-Eyed Athena flooded her senses, providing mettle to stiffen a wilting resolve. She had to stand now, or risk eternity on her knees. The price would be worth it, come what may.

Snake-swift she lashed out, one hand grabbing the tip of her foes weapon, sharp steel cutting into calloused skin, sudden punishment for her desperate gambit. Victory had to paid for, and with the God’s grace that would be all the payment required. A flash of surprise in her enemy’s eyes was early reward, though the expression soured further when a fistful of grit struck her heavily. A moment it bought her, and nothing more, but Diana promised that she would not waste it. With a jerk she heaved her foe’s sword aside, feeling the steel bite deeper.

Use it roared battle-proud Ares, let it fuel you! Let nothing stop you! To this command, she would listen.

A sudden surge and Diana kicked out, stealing her opponents balance out from under her. An eager cry, and she was rising to her feet, letting go of the sword that ruined skin, and struck a titanic blow to the enemy. Was that a joyous clap of thunder she heard, soft in the distance? No time to think, press forward, forward, forward. She felt rather than observed her foes counterblow. Diana's bracelets, victory captured in God worked metal, moved like a silver blur. Another crash of thunder, this time accompanied by a rain of broken steel. Amazonian swords did not break easy, but they did break, it seemed. Her rival looked on in sickened horror, but Diana was moving too fast to notice, spinning around the arm that once held a sword that just moments ago had threatened to ruin her far-soaring dreams. Like a dancer, she pirouetted around her foe, left petrified in Diana’s wake. With ease that bordered on divine, the Amazonian princess hooked her hands under her opponent’s armpits, and a quick heave rolled the dumbfounded enemy across her hips and forced her onto the ground, face pressed into the sand. Diana quickly positioned her knee across her foes back, stretching one captured arm out at an obscene angle.

“Yield” She commanded. She expected the fight to continue. Amazonians do not yield. She readied herself to have to visit some terrible ruin upon the warrior beneath her that would end the fight conclusively. She was wrong. The woman beneath her went limp, the surrender sudden. One moment they fought as enemies, the next they were conquered and conqueror. It was probably the swiftness of the transformation that left Diana with the most questions.

“I yield. Let me up daughter.” A moment longer and they were no longer conquered and conquereor, but mother and daughter, facing each other in the open Amphitheater of Hera. They were alone, Hippolyta allowing no spectators to this, the final round in the competition to discover which Amazon would stand champion over mankind. At first Diana had been livid that there would be no audience for her grand victory. Now she understood her mothers reasons, and felt nothing but regret for fighting her so hard in even that minor decree. This moment had been just for they alone.

Alone except for the God's. To watch was their right.

There is beauty in all things. Even in this. Especially in this. The creamy-smooth voice of foam-washed Aphrodite was like being woken with a kiss. Gentle, soft, and undeniably there. And she was right, there was a beauty here, but it was a cold, final kind of beauty. Someone had to lose for Diana to win. This, she realised, was the true price to be paid for victory. The hurt in her hand had already begun to heal, tortured flesh knitting swiftly together. The hurt this moment caused her mother never would. With a suddenness that matched the ending of their contest Diana understood she was about to sacrifice something perfect. Something irreplaceable.

"I am sorry, Mother"

"So am I, Daughter. So am I."

_Now

Doctor Barbara Anne Minerva listened to the tale the beautiful young woman in front of her wove with rapt attention and an open mouth. It all sounded so fantastic, in all the worst kind of ways. Amazons? Swordfights? Gods? What was this, a bad Game of Thrones rip-off? She would have dismissed it as nothing more than the delusions of a mad woman, if said woman hadn’t been a clay statue standing in the British Museum less than two hours ago. Maybe she was the mad woman. It was a few moments before Barbara had the wherewithal to respond.

“And that was the last time you seen your mother, your home?” A nod was all the response she got, Diana hugging herself tightly, seemingly distracted by her old ghosts. Or maybe she was just cold. She was dressed in little better than a towel, and Barbara’s office wasn’t the warmest. After they were finished here she’d see if she could find the young woman something cosier in the lost and found. First she had to figure out what to do with the supposed-Amazonian.

“So you’re here to … what … fight some great evil that threatens humanity?”

“Yes, Barbara Anne Minerva. That is my task.” That left just one more question to ask.

“So … What evil?” Diana looked towards her, her eyes big and bright and vulnerable, and in that moment Barbara really could believe she was an ancient princess who had lost everything she had once known and loved to the slow, forward march of the centuries.

“I don’t know.”

P O S T C A T A L O G:

---

A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed arcs and stories.

Fog of Torvelt

Gentle

---

He might not have been much good at reading faces - with how heavy the years sat on them, his eyes couldn't do much reading of anything now - but his ears where as about as good at their job since the day they first started working, and if he wasn't mistaken he thought he could hear a welling of grief from the huntress when she spoke of her father. Either the wound was fresh, or the hurt ran bone deep. He could relate. The bond between father and child was a strong one, sacrosanct in his opinion, if that counted for anything. He resisted the urge to ask more about the subject. He wouldn't want someone sticking their nose into his past for no other reason than to satisfy idle curiosity, wasn't right he did it to anyone else.

He fell silent while listening to the others, nodding appreciatively at the horned-lady's questions. Smart enough to ask what the rest of them ignored. Good. Needed someone with brains on an operation like this, and God's knew he wasn't supplying them. The masked-wizards response didn't fill him with as much confidence, especially talk of his 'first trick'. Wizards tricks were rarely matters a-body could take lightly. And the way he said 'humanity' sparked Gentle's interest. Something about the way the mage said it put his hackles up, like he didn't count himself among their number. The wizard was a mystery, and one that had more layers to it than a simple mask. He needed watching.

His attention was snatched by the swords-woman snapping at the hunter. Gentle shook his head slightly at the scene, thick hand scratching at his ear again. Couldn't say part of him didn't agree with the haughty half-elf, what use was an archer without a bow after all, but her attitude left something to be desired. Strutting around like a lion on parade, bellowing abuse at volunteers who had come to fix what sounded like her mistake, angry at the world and everyone in it, looking like she lived off a strict diet of fire and whetstones. He didn't know whether to grin or grimace, settled for snorting a bemused breath through his nose. She would have made a half decent 'taur. Hell, he'd been no different at her age, cept he'd been a touch uglier and a bite less controlled. For her sake he hoped she didn't make the same mistakes he had.

He cocked his head towards the huntress. Took a toll on a person, being dressed down like that. Soldiers took it, because that was what they were getting paid for, one way or another. But when it came to volunteers the same rules didn't necessarily apply. Nobody want's good intentions repaid with bad attitudes. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, the old saying went. Thought he'd lighten the mood, if he could. He'd already bought the King's bodyguard's displeasure once already today, figured he might as well keep paying the toll if it kept her focus on him and off the others. Maybe keep some spirits up instead of dampening them. "On the sunny side if you run out of arrows you can always ask to borrow the stick she keeps slotted up her arse. Need a balistae to fire it, mind." He muttered it softly, a joke for the huntress and him, though not so quiet the others wouldn't hear it if they listening.

Fog of Torvelt

Gentle

---

Gentle’s shovel sized hand scratched behind his ear as he considered the huntress’ question. Hot-blooded? That was putting things mild. Hotter-than-a-dragon-with-heartburn would have been closer to the truth, and didn’t he know it better than most.

“Some of us hotter than others, but yeah, that’s about the twist of it.” He shrugged his heavy shoulders, equal parts contrite and embarrassed. This wasn't a subject he enjoyed discussing. Too many painful memories tied up with it. But, as Apollokeos taught, there can be no forigivness without acceptance, no redemption from cowardice. Better to face your fears than to live in their shadow. “Minoas’ Gift, I’ve heard some ‘taurs call it, though if it is a gift it’s the kind he should have kept the receipt for. Course the humans refer to it as ‘Baphomet’s Hunger’, which, while being more insulting by design, does cleave a touch closer to the truth of the affliction.”

He stopped himself from going more in depth, explaining the theological differences between the ancient God Minoas, and the horned demon Baphomet, and their respective roles in the Minotaur's creationist myth. That was a subject he enjoyed discussing, had in fact spent many an enjoyable evening debating the intricacies of the tale with Pytheas, the elderly Abbot at the Temple of Clean Waters, but he’d gotten the impression from her slightly-sour response to his offer to pray to appease the trees that the small huntress was a sceptic when it came to the Gods. He might have been living in a temple the last five years, but he still didn’t like to think of himself as ‘preachy’. He chose to change the subject.

“Your father took on a raging bull ‘taur and lived to speak about it? That’s an impressive feat that few can boast of. Must be skilled. He teach you the bow? To survive in the wilds?”

Fog of Torvelt

Gentle

---

Once upon a time a time Gentle would have met such a casual, contemptuous dismissal like the one the half-elf just directed at him with full, insane, glorious, horrifying, beautiful violence. Wouldn’t even have thought about it, either. Instinct trumped thought everytime, and his was an instinct bone-deep, crawling back along the centuries to when his kind where birthed by a queen who lay with a God. He would have just dipped his horns and charged, like his fore-fathers of old, gored whichever idiot frail got in his way and to hells with the consequences, he would have bourne them all, just to display the simple fact that no one. disrespects. THE BULL.

…

He grunted deep in the back of his throat, trying to clear the bitter, half-remembered salt-tang from his mouth. Felt a small wave of nausea when he realized he was salivating. There was a bloodless tremble in his hands that had nothing to do with age and everything to do with hot, desperate anticipation. Hands clenched white-hard around his quarter-staff, but that just seemed to make the shake worse. Was that the wood of his staff he could hear splintering, or his clamped teeth, tight as a sprung bear-trap? He backed off from the warrior woman, and got as far from her as he could in this suddenly all too small room.

He was old now, he reminded himself, and with age come wisdom, the wisdom to feel out which battles were worth fighting, and which were better left unfought. At least that was the lie he'd tell anyone in the unlikely event they asked why he slunk away from the half-elf like a beat dog. The real truth of the matter was that he was scared. Scared? Terrified, more like. Deep-recessed fear of repeating fool-damned mistakes that he’d made a hundred times, a thousand times, in the past. Mistakes that it would be best for everyone, especially himself, if he left there in the past, where the only people they could hurt were his ghosts. He took some deep breaths, calming breaths, aiming to keep his blood down. He failed. In the deep distance he could swear he heard maddened braying, ancestors long dust demanding he stop disrespecting their legacy and do what he was born to do. What the Minotaur's where made to do. And just below the bestial demands of his father's fathers, almost at the soft edge of what he couldn’t heard, at the meeting place where memory and imagination exist, the insistent, sonorous, all-powerful voice of an absent deity, the primarch who left but has since returned, urging him onwards, to give in to his base appetites, to give glory to Dread Minoas.

He was only paying partial attention to the rest of the group. He needed to keep his efforts focused on keeping his monstrous blood in check. Desperately murmered prayers to Apollokeos, She Who Promises Clean Waters, for the strength seemed destined to go unheard, when salvation came from an unlooked quarter. Aoné referred to herself as a barbarian. Funny. He hadn’t expected the Elf to have a sense of humour. He’d always figured the Elves to be dry and brittle, like desert glass. He snorted a laugh. Not long and not loud, but it was enough to break the spell that the blood-madness of his people was weaving on him. He took another deep breath, the mingled scents of this group of strangers and castle life tainting the freshness, the stink of lavender heaviest of all, but it still revived him. He looked to Aoné. "Thank you." He murmured. He doubted she heard him. The thanks wasn't really for her anyway.

He directed his attention back to the group as the dwarf and the huntress re-introduced themselves, wondering at the pointlessness of it. Hadn’t they just done this for the king’s benefit? Shouldn't they be doing this on the road to ‘Mudshit’, or wherever it was they were destined for. The ‘taur rubbed a big hand across his broad temple, trying, and mostly failing, to massage away the splitting headache that had been coming on him. Was this really what the God’s wanted him for?

The bit about the trees did catch his attention though. Stranger hating trees? He didn’t like the sound of that, not one little bit. He wasn’t a big fan of roofs of a kind, be it stone grey or leafy green, much preferring the trackless expanse of blue sky or crystal clear night. But combine a roof with an inhospitable tree? That, well that just sounded like a recipe for a failed quest to his mind. Sure, maybe they were just regular trees, and the half-elf had gone a little feral, but it sounded like portent to him, and if there was one thing they taught you in Achea, it was you should never ignore portent.

“These trees, they dangerous?” He directed his question at the huntress half-elf, “I could make a sacrifice to appease them? The God’s ain’t always in a listening mood, but if they are maybe they’ll have a word with the trees on our behalf, put a good word in for us. Reckon that will do us any good sister?”

Fog of Torvelt

@queenoftheages That line about being a barbarian was excellent. If I could like a post twice I would have.

Fog of Torvelt

"And so ends the story of Gentle the Minotaur. He insulted a wizard and a swords-master, unifying the two rivals, who subsequently turned the foolish bull into hamburger meat. A cautionary tale against the folly of hubris."

Fog of Torvelt

Gentle

---

He passed a few more adventurers – companions, he supposed they should be called – on his way out the hall. First an impressively scarred Tiefling woman. If her mug was anything to go by then she dealt with most of life’s obstacles by barging through them face first. A girl after his own heart. The horns were also a nice addition. Never could have too many horns on an expedition like this.

After her came what he assumed was an Aasimir. Gentle didn’t know what to make of him, slight little frail that he was. He supposed that looks could be deceiving, and the shield he lugged seemed sturdy enough, though the Achean’s had been fans of big shields themselves, and Gentle had seen plenty of those shattered in his time. Maybe he was being harsh on the blonde boy, but if experience had taught him anything it was that the size of the dog in the fight definitely did matter a hell of a lot more than popular wisdom would have you believe.

The last member of their little coterie was even skinnier than the Aasimir, bearing the sharp pointed ears and delicate features of an elf. In her case being fragile didn’t seem like such an impairment. Elves had access to magics that featured in the other races nightmares, every calf knew that, and you didn’t need biceps to cast hocus-pocus. Gentle had run afoul of a few spellcasters in his time, and wasn’t keen to repeat the mistake. He’d walk carefully around this one.

The crew filed back into the sitting room that they’d passed through on their way into the hall, to be met with the sight of a berobed, masked figure. Nathaniel didn’t even have to open his mouth for Gentle to figure out he was a spellcaster. From the way he dressed, to the way he moved, everything about him said ‘I’m quite interested in wizard bollocks’. Gentle didn’t like him on principal, if for no other reason than his daft mask and the overbearing stench of his lavender perfume. Any man who wore that much perfume was hiding something.

As if the mask didn’t say that succinctly enough.

Still, rules were rules, and Gentle wasn’t about to start arguing with a mage without good cause. If Nathaniel wanted to act like the king-swinging dick, he was more than welcome to the role. Gentle had done his share of leading in his younger days, and it hadn’t turned out pretty for anyone involved. He was happy to let the bemasked wizard bear that load. However it seemed like not everyone shared his sentiments. The sword-slinging half-elf, Gentle didn’t know her name because she had quite helpfully declined to give it to the people she intended on leading, got up in the overly-perfumed mage’s face and started acting hard.

Gentle would have been more than happy to let them go at it – personal combat to decide which bull led the herd was pretty common in ‘taur culture after all – and if this kind of confrontation was likely between the half-elf and the spell-man then it was better to get it out of the way sooner rather than later, but he couldn’t help but wonder if this kind of ruckus would be seen as ‘barbaric’ to the more civilised amongst their numbers. He waited for someone else to speak up, to show support for one side or other, or maybe even throw their own hat into the ring. Nobody did. Looking around he wasn’t sure what he seen on the faces of the others. He’d never been all that good at reading others. Imposing his own will on the people around him, that he could do, but divining what they wanted themselves was a skill that had always eluded him. He snorted audibly, and stepped forward. If no one else felt like speaking then he supposed he’d have to give it a try himself.

“Does anyone else here care whether Nathaniel, the surely learned and powerful mage who can’t remember the name of the place we’re supposed to be going, or the lady elf so desperate to display the length and girth of her no-doubt titanic cock leads us ‘honourable do-gooders’?” He did his best to emulate Nathaniel’s painfully sarcastic tone, but wasn’t sure he got the inflection quite right. “Personally I’m happy to form a square in the dirt outside and let them tear lumps out each other to decide, but then I am just a simple Minotaur. Whatever we decide I gotta point out that while I’m not a betting bull I think that the odds are good that if there is any sands left in the prince’s hourglass, then they’ll be trickling down quick while we're standing here. Even if they weren’t the daylights burning and I’d like to leave some miles in our tracks before sundown.” He realized that he hadn't managed to go all that long without insulting both a court-mage and a pretty dangerous looking half-elf. So much for staying in the magic-types good graces.

Oh well, he'd never been all that good at taking good advice. Especially his own.

Fog of Torvelt

The smell of his lavender perfume is choking.

@Jeremor

Wasnt what I was expecting, but I'd be lying if I said I was dissapointed.