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The Prophecy of Ash (A Dark Souls RP) ~Re-Boot?~

Hi, I've been recently getting back into Dark Souls 3, and would love to join this rp.

A kings' political marriage plan- closed

"Siblings . . ." Vyarin muttered. He picked up on Annalise's unsettled air. When he could see she wasn't looking at him, his eyes began to wander about the room as well, settling on faces. Something was off. The king was pacing back and forth in a corner of the hall, urgency in every step. It seemed the two were playing some sort of game, Vyarin and Annalise, pretending to look at each other while glancing as much as possible at the king and his retinue. ". . . No siblings. I am the only son of my father. I have many cousins. The clan Kremazov is among the largest east of the Zpina and north of the Rezevy." He didn't even catch her reaction.

A hand clapping his shoulder caused Vyarin to whirl about, his nerves shot to the core. A sharp whisper in his ear stopped him dead.

"Just us, don't appear too alarmed," whispered Tellos. "Finish your conversation. Our safety here can no longer be a guarantee." Vyarin looked sheepishly at his cousin, and then back at Annalise.

"Erm . . . I introduce Tellos of the clan Kremazov, my most trusted advisor second to my father," said Vyarin to the princess, gesturing awkwardly. He noticed Brudzkon standing not too far away, smiling and chatting with other guests as usual, but his hand would occasionally wander to the hilt of his shashka.

"A pleasure to be of acquainted," Tellos said, bowing and speaking in the Apura tongue. His accent shone through quite clearly. "You and . . . cousin . . . are met? Beginning of good friendship, yes?"

A kings' political marriage plan- closed

Vyarin nodded, looking away at the baroque-esque decorations lining the walls. If she could speak Prozdy, then how many others here? This sort of information was not the sort of thing he'd like to have getting out.

"He was the better man," Vyarin said, through gritted teeth. It was the truth, after all.

It was the second thing she said, however, that really shook him. He almost swung around, his massive frame almost jostling a nearby couple, to face Annalise. Slowly, he pointed to his own eye, the one on the left. The broken one, the useless one. Then, his right eye flicking about a bit, he pointed to hers, on her right and his left.

"I am sorry," Vyarin said, slowly. The only thing he knew to say at the moment. Secretly, he was almost glad, as sadistic as that seems. The two of them were not dissimilar, not in that way. "Sometimes it is difficult to walk for you as well? To break things you did not see and strike walls and doors with your head?" He spoke softly, nearing a whisper, not daring to raise his voice and make this private moment known to the entire hall. In his own mind, he can imagine his own left eye, unbroken and uncovered, but blind nonetheless, staring into hers, that connection never being made. Maybe it was wrong of him to talk about it so. "It is unpleasant. I don't want for our mutual annoyances to interfere with our good conversation." He thought about what he could say. Anything, anything else at all. " . . . Perhaps you have visited my homeland once, as I am visiting yours? If you ever return there, I must ask you to see the Zhonov-Kremazov Music Hall, built in honour of my father by the noble Prince Ulyin of the clan Zhonov. I have seen many beautiful buildings, and that one is highest among them, on the inside and the outside. Excepting of course your home . . ." He added the last sentence upon remembering himself. It would be an insult to her clan were he to so emphatically declare anything of theirs so superior to anything of hers. "Perhaps, in good luck, I will host you there."

A kings' political marriage plan- closed

"I-" The eye, of course. Vyarin looked down at her with the one remaining, his hand reaching up until it touched the rag. He daren't press in, for fear of what lay beneath. Not even he knew anymore. It could still be there, slashed through the iris until it looked like the slit from a lizard's eye. It could be a rotted and gnarled lump, black and squishy. It could just be gone, faded away by time leaving behind a cavernous lump. The thought made him sick. He didn't want to think about it.

"It . . . should not have been. A sensitive matter, an accident from when I had to act on behalf of my father," he finally said, quietly, glancing down at the shashka sitting at his hip. It was the same one from that fateful day. The lands beyond the League tended to look down upon the duel as a barbaric practice, he had learned. They were sunny people, accustomed to leisure and finery and peace. Fine castles and palaces, rather than grim motte and bailey keeps. Marble rather than granite. Life is far more precious this far south, it seems. Far more to enjoy. Vyarin finally looked up, to meet Annalise's eye, almost afraid that he might see dissatisfaction there. He felt guilty, dancing around the issue. "You have heard of a . . . Country Haircut?" he chanced, a common euphemism known around the Zpina for a dueling-related injury. If her tutor in Prozdy was a native speaker, she must have heard the phrase at some point.

A kings' political marriage plan- closed

Vyarin simply smiled wanly and nodded as the king spoke. His speaking was decidedly ancient in its style. He spoke in flowery euphemisms, in almost lyrical metre, as if he were reciting a poem in Literary Prozdy. Vyarin himself had grown up without such appreciation for the humanities, and thus even speaking in his own tongue he was brutish and direct. "Soldier-speak", his father would say often to other princes of the League, especially when they were trying to avoid having to discuss their own mistakes in combat. He doubted even if he responded in Prozdy that the king and himself could truly communicate well. Eventually, the older man left him, seemingly satisfied with the impression he made, to speak to a lady of the court, or perhaps one of his daughters. Vyarin continued to nod a bit after he had left, although he couldn't clearly say why. Something of the old king's presence had a habit of lingering.

Then, soon as the king was gone, Vyarin noticed a lady of the court stumble before another courtier. He immediately felt an instinct of shock grip his heart, almost similar to his own shock were he in her own place. The scene appeared somehow so familiar. She composed herself and continued on. Was she approaching . . . him? Indeed, she was, as she stopped in front of Vyarin and dipped in that curious style so common among women in these foreign lands.

She spoke Prozdy as well. It was of the same pattern, and the same accent. Vyarin realized then that this was no mere lady, but one of the king's daughters. When she finished Vyarin responded with his own bow, in mimicry of the local style, and responded in his own language.

"I am honoured to be your guest," Vyarin said to the princess. She was so incredibly small, standing before him. "We traveled a great distance and long hours. I am of the clan Kremazov, Vyarin son of Zarrir. Who are you daughter of?"

A kings' political marriage plan- closed

"Apology, I- uhh . . ." Vyarin stammered his apologies to the king in the local tongue. He stopped himself before he said something he well shouldn't, and instead dropped to one knee. He had seen such practice in the surrounding lands. Hopefully it was similarly applicable here. "I am . . . servant. To you," he finally said. The king's Prozdy-speech was good, for a foreigner at least. Certainly better than Vyarin's own Apura-tongue.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the presence of a few more faces in the back of the crowd as he stood again. Tellos had managed to shuffle in, having exchanged his armour for his finery, and beside him one other, a warrior Vyarin knew by the name of Brudzkon "the Many-Faced". He felt a wave of relief, knowing that some support has arrived in this grandiose and cavernous court. Vyarin's and Tellos' eyes met, and the latter made a motion to his compatriot. They were both loyal men, and spirited besides. They will represent Prozdy well here.

A kings' political marriage plan- closed

None

A kings' political marriage plan- closed

Vyarin's brow creased, as he observed the interaction between their host the king and that green-coloured noble. Was he obligated to bring a gift? He patted his pockets, hoping by some miracle that something would materialize within them worthy to be presented before a man of such great station. Unfortunately, they were empty. Vyarin's gaze drifted down to the shashka at his belt. Perhaps . . . certainly not. He felt absurd for even considering the possibility. A man's sword was an extension of his own will. The boys of Prozdy grow up with wooden sword in hand, as if their right arms were simply longer than their left. Nonetheless, he would have to come up with something, lest he offend the king in his own home. Vyarin was done with offenses.

His eye drifted upwards to the walls, then the ceiling, hoping something hiding in the decorations would give him inspiration. His mind raced as he tried to recall everything he had brought with him in his bags and those of his men. Practical items, nothing he would give even an innkeeper's wife. Hardtack, dried meats and fruits, machetes for the more difficult portions of his long trail southward. Lamps that squeaked with rust, and clothes that no doubt would fit nobody in this entire chambre excepting perhaps those exotic green-skinned men some rows ahead of himself. Vyarin looked down at his fingers, comparing them to those around him. They were unadorned with rings and signets, and covered with callouses. No luck even should the king ask to shake his hand.

"Apology. Apology for . . . no item. To give. Apology for no item . . . to give," Vyarin muttered to himself, in the local tongue. He marked the pauses with a few curses in his own Prozdy speech. He was never much of a polyglot, and this language was harder to learn than most. Conjugations, prepositions, pronouns, they swirled about his head as he grabbed pieces of words and tried to cram them into a working sentence. What if the king should ask for him to answer? Vyarin's hands balled up into fists as he continued to rehearse to himself, staring quietly down at them. "Apology for no item to give . . . we Prozdy is no man of . . . lavishness . . ."

A kings' political marriage plan- closed

"Forward, forward!" Vyarin said, whispering loudly as he urged his horse onward. He was surrounded on all sides by carriages, magnificent coaches pulled with all manner of exotic beast. Slowly, he edged his horse through the procession, flitting between those great vehicles while his honour guard raced tiredly along behind him. Of his entire retinue, Vyarin was the only one with a horse. A gift from a baron in one of the neighbouring realms, a man with meagre land to his name but a heart large enough for his entire court. The horse was a magnificent specimen; stout and strong, and could go many leagues without stopping, much to the annoyance of the rest of the party. Vyarin was not concerned, however. These were the men of Prozdy, and their discipline was unmatched in all the League. It was Prozdy arms that won the great victory at the Battle of Zpina's Pass, driving the Overlords across the mountains and securing freedom. They could surely march on.

The clattering of armour marked the appearance of Vyarin's confidante; the head of the honour guard and a distant cousin, known to Prozdy as Tellos "the Outlander". His face was reddened, in part by the exertion and in greater part by the intense sun.

"A match here would be fortuitous," he muttered, his tongue languid as a brook. He spoke the language of Prozdy, which no doubt would be foreign to any they would encounter in this palace. "If you could establish a personal union here, while your father secures the loyalty of the princes of Vlaga and Perozord, the combined power base could propel us to the forefront of continental politics. Prozdy may become the singular arbiter of power from the Zpina to the eastern sea."

"Please, not now. It is hot," said Vyarin, gritting his teeth. The thought of marriage was so distant when he had left his homeland behind. It was like a game to him. Suddenly, as he approached the opulent gates ahead, boxed in by fine carriages he could only marvel at from the outside, he felt the pull of his youth being sucked from under his feet.

"There is no better time," said Tellos, leaning a hand on the flank of the horse. It whinnied in response, lowering its head, surely feeling the heat even more than its rider. "All that we achieve contributes in some part to the game of state. At home, perhaps, you are Vyarin. Here, you are Kremazov."

"You make my eye hurt," Vyarin mumbled, reaching a hand to his bandages. Tellos shook his head slowly, as all the carriages stopped and the nobles within them stepped with shaky legs onto solid ground at last. Reaching up a hand, Tellos helped the young Prince of Princes down from his horse, and together they tied the creature up to a large tree. "It really is hot here, down in the south, unbearable nearly," he continued, breaking the minutes of silence between them. Tellos didn't feel the need to respond. He never did. The stone-faced man was not quite ten years Vyarin's elder, but a lifetime of standing by his father's side had made him nearly as strange.

"You go inside. First. We watch . . . outside. Item. Horse," Tellos had changed to the local tongue, of which they both were hardly fluent. It was a clear enough sign. When in foreign lands . . . Vyarin nodded. They spent their last few moments together rapidly going over a few common phrases of this strange land. "Enchanted to meet you." "I represent Prozdy and the princely clan of Kremazov." "Is this good to eat?" Finally, Tellos patted his cousin roughly on his shoulder, and left to bark orders at the rest of the guard. Vyarin steeled himself, straightening his posture and taking a deep breath. Recall solemnity. At last, he followed the crowd milling through the gates into the palace proper.

A kings' political marriage plan- closed

character sheet

name: Vyarin Kremazov

appearance: Tall and incredibly built, Vyarin is the model of a warrior. Indeed, his form is the sort that would take up an entire doorway he would happen to pass through. In accordance with the religious reforms of half a century past, he keeps his blond hair shaved down to fuzz. His face is similarly shaved. However, most notable about him is the rag that obscures his left eye, wrapped around his head, that conceals the gaping remains of his eye.

age: 19

bio: Vyarin was born to a most impressive pedigree. His father, the famed Zarrir "Usurper-of-Tyrants", had recently before Vyarin's birth led a successful rebellion against the so-called "Western Overlords" from across the Zpina mountain range. The Western Overlords' memory has been intentionally lost, with Zarrir having ordered all record of them destroyed and declaring that any who speak of them in his court have their tongues cut out. Thus, Vyarin's birth, coinciding rather neatly with the liberation, was considered highly auspicious by many. His name, "Vyarin", even means "of freedom" or "freeborn" in the now-dead Old Prozdy language. On his birth, Vyarin was given the courtesy titles of "Prince of Princes" (a title shared by his father), and "First Lord of the League". The League of which the second title represents is the nominally equal partnership of the great many rulers and nobles who had risen up alongside Prozdy against the Western Overlords, but in reality serve as effective vassals to Prozdy.

Vyarin grew up among the militant court of his father. In the Prozdy culture, strength and stoicism were the highest virtues, and nobles who shied away from military pursuits were considered illegitimate to rule. Thus, Vyarin was given a rigorous education in fighting with a great variety of weapons, strategy and tactics, and a number of traditional sports. Thus, he grew up strong, accustomed to physical strain and resistant to the fear of death. At least, that was the visage he put on for the court to see. In truth, he found he tired often of the singleminded pursuit of conflict and victory that Prozdy society seemed to worship, and found he was rather curious regarding a great many subjects not taught to him. However, there wasn't much to be done about that. His father Zarrir was an iron-fisted ruler, grim and incredibly competent, and would likely stand for no deviation on his son's part.

It was on Vyarin's coming-of-age day that his life changed rather oddly. During the celebrations, one of the princes of the League inadvertently insulted Vyarin before all the attendees. Zarrir, in a fit of rage, demanded that Vyarin and the prince duel with shashka to the death before the entire crowd. Neither were particularly interested in fighting this duel, and the prince offered to apologize, Zarrir's command was absolute, declaring that should either refuse this duel, they would be declared cowards and stripped of all honours. Eventually, after some heavy debate, a compromise was declared in which the two would fight only to first blood. The duel commenced, and ended when Vyarin fell forward, screaming and clutching at the left side of his face. Quickly, doctors were called, but the surgery was brutal, and perhaps did more damage to his eye than even the blade. Eventually, it was declared that Vyarin was blind in one eye. Zarrir, fearing for his son's life and his own court's stability, sent Vyarin away on the premise that he find a spouse.

role in the story: Prince and suitor