CorinTraven

Tales of Lucenrai: The Fallen Kingdom

Princess Vera Drewery

Character Sheet

Appearance:



The product of generations of gentle breeding, Princess Vera has, or at least had, not only the predisposition to beauty, but the means in which to uphold such an appearance. Prior to being led away from her home in some desperate line of invalids, she'd been quite taken up with her own vanity, as nubile girls tended to be, still new to the male attention they'd just begun to receive. She stands at a modest 5'4", with a narrowness that can be accounted to both the natural slimness she'd inherited from her mother, along with the awkward transition phase puberty had left her in. Not quite yet a woman, she still tries to hold herself with the maturity and dignity expected of her, having been taught since her girlhood how a Princess ought to act, and despite the expected rebellion adolescence brought, she did well to fit the mold. Since the departure from the capitol, a change has befallen the Princess. She's taken a grim mood, and like a plague, whatever sadness or depression rots her soul, has also taken a toll on her outward appearance. Her blue eyes are cupped by purple bruises, the products of sleeplessness. Though she remains hygienic, she abandoned the intricate braids and up-dos she'd once been fond of for a simple silver-blonde braid down her back. Travelling exhausts her, but the true haunt lies not in perils of the journey, but the fear and guilt she feels from what they are escaping; the destruction of her people, her home, her family.

Name: Princess Vera Drewery

Age: 16 years old

Personality:

Most would describe the refugee Princess's presence as ghastly. Since the caravan set north, she'd grown cold and quiet. Though in the public, one might mistake her coldness to a clandestine determination, those who witnessed her privately would know the girl was far from hardened. On the contrary, she had gone completely numb from the situation, not a panicking ball of fear, but rather a unresponsive specter. She was frightened, yes, but more so that frightened, the girl was guilty. Though she had no part in the city's downfall, the escalation of such taking place throughout her childhood where she was but a terrible witness, still, as Princess, she knows that the people will look to her as their leader, the entity to which they pledge their loyalty to in exchange for protection from such horrors. Yet, she was just a girl, just as vulnerable and as helpless as these refugee children, fleeing, just as them, a great Armageddon.

The duality of her role as both a leader, and a helpless refugee, leave the girl confused and frightened of the decisions to come. She knows little outside a scholarly knowledge of where they were headed, and of what trials and tribulations were ahead. What she fears the most is what lies behind them, should they move too slowly, and her father's army fall too quickly. The idea of capture brings the girl nightmares, and her own mortality dawns on her once immortal mind. The realization that she is no longer a privileged elite, a carefree girl unknowing of the consequences of the world, brings with it only more fear and confusion for the Princess to sort through, leaving her to feel trapped in the labyrinth of fate.

Backstory:

Vera's childhood was as normal and as utterly bizarre as you'd expect from a little royal Princess. She had no tragedy, no ultimatum or curse to steer her far from the path of being your average girl, a little more refined, a little more cultured than a peasant girl, but with no remarkable trait to seperate her besides wealth and authority. Her life was comfortable, she did her schooling and listened to her parents; so had you asked an eight year old Vera where she expected to be when she was sixteen, she'd assume she'd be looking for a husband, rather than looking for refuge.

It is rumored that the heiress had been courting a young man before the invasion had begun, however, she never speaks of such a man, and rumors were plentiful within the castle walls. The day she was told that she would be leaving the city with the caravan, the Princess had first outright refused, the youngest and only unmarried child of a bountiful line. Her sisters were to being taken with their husbands, either fleeing as well, or barricading their own estate (should that estate still exist to barricade. Her brothers, those who were not within the King's service, would either remain at the castle to rule in their father's stead, or again fled in a different direction from the Princess and her parade. Now, separated from the comfort of her home, Vera must deal with the abandonment of her old life, and forge forward toward anew.

Skills and Abilities:

Journeyman embroidery:
Raised in a castle among other women, Vera knows plenty in regards to sewing and the related crafts.

Professional penmanship/scholarship:
Her handwriting is a lavish cursive font, a trait learned through her extensive schooling.

Journeyman communication/dialect:
She has a refined tone and an expanded vocabulary. As well, she knows a decent amount about how to influence and manipulate people through conversation.

Journeyman dance:
She knows many dances from her cultured upbringing.

Journeyman riding:
Vera's been riding since she was little, though mostly for sport, she still has a decent level of control of a horse.

Novice politician:
Surrounded by different Lords, Advisers, and various politicians, as she's grown in age, she's also grown more aware of the appearance needed to successfully rule. Most of the knowledge lies in little bits of wisdom her father and mother have bestowed to her, but she clings desperately to those shards of knowledge now more than ever.

Equipment:

-One well-bred riding horse
-A leather bag filled with various seals, inks, and scrolls meant for official documentation
-An arctic fox-fur lined cloak, trimmed with an icy silk and threaded in a dull lavender
-Black leather riding boots
-Various small pieces of jewelry with the royal crest upon them
-A steel dagger
-Heavy woolen stockings
-A medium bag with a different set of clothes
-Her tiara is also rumored to be hidden among what belongings she keeps strapped to her horse

Tales of Lucenrai: The Fallen Kingdom

Character Sheet

Appearance:

My Hider

The product of generations of gentle breeding, Princess Vera has, or at least had, not only the predisposition to beauty, but the means in which to uphold such an appearance. Prior to being led away from her home in some desperate line of invalids, she'd been quite taken up with her own vanity, as nubile girls tended to be, still new to the male attention they'd just begun to receive. She stands at a modest 5'4", with a narrowness that can be accounted to both the natural slimness she'd inherited from her mother, along with the awkward transition phase puberty had left her in. Not quite yet a woman, she still tries to hold herself with the maturity and dignity expected of her, having been taught since her girlhood how a Princess ought to act, and despite the expected rebellion adolescence brought, she did well to fit the mold. Since the departure from the capitol, a change has befallen the Princess. She's taken a grim mood, and like a plague, whatever sadness or depression rots her soul, has also taken a toll on her outward appearance. Her blue eyes are cupped by purple bruises, the products of sleeplessness. Though she remains hygienic, she abandoned the intricate braids and up-dos she'd once been fond of for a simple silver-blonde braid down her back. Travelling exhausts her, but the true haunt lies not in perils of the journey, but the fear and guilt she feels from what they are escaping; the destruction of her people, her home, her family.

Name: Princess Vera Drewery

Age: 16 years old

Personality:

Most would describe the refugee Princess's presence as ghastly. Since the caravan set north, she'd grown cold and quiet. Though in the public, one might mistake her coldness to a clandestine determination, those who witnessed her privately would know the girl was far from hardened. On the contrary, she had gone completely numb from the situation, not a panicking ball of fear, but rather a unresponsive specter. She was frightened, yes, but more so that frightened, the girl was guilty. Though she had no part in the city's downfall, the escalation of such taking place throughout her childhood where she was but a terrible witness, still, as Princess, she knows that the people will look to her as their leader, the entity to which they pledge their loyalty to in exchange for protection from such horrors. Yet, she was just a girl, just as vulnerable and as helpless as these refugee children, fleeing, just as them, a great Armageddon.

The duality of her role as both a leader, and a helpless refugee, leave the girl confused and frightened of the decisions to come. She knows little outside a scholarly knowledge of where they were headed, and of what trials and tribulations were ahead. What she fears the most is what lies behind them, should they move too slowly, and her father's army fall too quickly. The idea of capture brings the girl nightmares, and her own mortality dawns on her once immortal mind. The realization that she is no longer a privileged elite, a carefree girl unknowing of the consequences of the world, brings with it only more fear and confusion for the Princess to sort through, leaving her to feel trapped in the labyrinth of fate.

Backstory:

Vera's childhood was as normal and as utterly bizarre as you'd expect from a little royal Princess. She had no tragedy, no ultimatum or curse to steer her far from the path of being your average girl, a little more refined, a little more cultured than a peasant girl, but with no remarkable trait to seperate her besides wealth and authority. Her life was comfortable, she did her schooling and listened to her parents; so had you asked an eight year old Vera where she expected to be when she was sixteen, she'd assume she'd be looking for a husband, rather than looking for refuge.

It is rumored that the heiress had been courting a young man before the invasion had begun, however, she never speaks of such a man, and rumors were plentiful within the castle walls. The day she was told that she would be leaving the city with the caravan, the Princess had first outright refused, the youngest and only unmarried child of a bountiful line. Her sisters were to being taken with their husbands, either fleeing as well, or barricading their own estate (should that estate still exist to barricade. Her brothers, those who were not within the King's service, would either remain at the castle to rule in their father's stead, or again fled in a different direction from the Princess and her parade. Now, separated from the comfort of her home, Vera must deal with the abandonment of her old life, and forge forward toward anew.

Skills and Abilities:

Journeyman embroidery:
Raised in a castle among other women, Vera knows plenty in regards to sewing and the related crafts.

Professional penmanship/scholarship:
Her handwriting is a lavish cursive font, a trait learned through her extensive schooling.

Journeyman communication/dialect:
She has a refined tone and an expanded vocabulary. As well, she knows a decent amount about how to influence and manipulate people through conversation.

Journeyman dance:
She knows many dances from her cultured upbringing.

Journeyman riding:
Vera's been riding since she was little, though mostly for sport, she still has a decent level of control of a horse.

Novice politician:
Surrounded by different Lords, Advisers, and various politicians, as she's grown in age, she's also grown more aware of the appearance needed to successfully rule. Most of the knowledge lies in little bits of wisdom her father and mother have bestowed to her, but she clings desperately to those shards of knowledge now more than ever.

Equipment:

-One well-bred riding horse
-A leather bag filled with various seals, inks, and scrolls meant for official documentation
-An arctic fox-fur lined cloak, trimmed with an icy silk and threaded in a dull lavender
-Black leather riding boots
-Various small pieces of jewelry with the royal crest upon them
-A steel dagger
-Heavy woolen stockings
-A medium bag with a different set of clothes
-Her tiara is also rumored to be hidden among what belongings she keeps strapped to her horse

[Advanced] Literate, frequent replies. Lots of plots!

I'd totally be interested in something historically oriented, here's a writing sample!

Writing Sample

Above the Southern Gate into Bal'vold, Evening.

In front of Colonel Andrew Moore stood five thousand men. Their dark eyes shined by the torch light that flickered between the masses, reflected from their armor, and projected around. Each man was silent as a corpse, and he bet many would end the night like that. Still, the Colonel took a deep breath, watching his men with a mixture of pride, and a sad realization. This was all he had left, half of his ten thousand were either in the grave, or had fled home, and quite honestly, he wished to join them. This was an impossible feat, to take the city of Bal'vold, and though his superiors told him they were winning, he did not believe it. This stubborn and wretched land was made of mud, and fought as hard against them as the dwarves. It seemed like he was forever being outflanked, forever loosing troves of men to the damned forests, and the fabled beasts of legend that apparently inhabited it. Of course, the sensible Moore knew better then to believe such nonsense, but it was quite haunting, still, and in his moments of doubt, often he'd catch himself remarking on how those glowing balls of light, obviously some sort of exotic relative to their fireflies, in some light, seemed to be surrounding a tiny body. And if you listened, it seemed like the chiming laughter of a child. But that was the talk of fools, for everyone knew there was no such thing as magic, and Fae.

"Men!" He'd begin, shaking away the thoughts of what craziness surrounded him, and deepening his voice, reassuring, and in every respect, that of a natural born leader. These were his men, and he had one final chance to lead them. The General had given him his ultimatum, the southern door into Bal'vold fell tonight, or the King would be giving them an unpleasant visit. He thought he could fear nothing more, until the messenger informed him that his family would be receiving one shortly after, and that awoke a whole knew form a terror to the man, who did not even realize he could be so fearful.

"Men!" Once more, he repeated, before his speech began, " Tonight, we take the southern gates of Bal'vold, you and I will stride into Bal'vold, and we shall secure it in the name of our brave King. As we speak, our brethren are securing the Eastern, Western, and even the Great Northern gates. And they're waiting oh-so patiently for us, to knock down these midget-savage's door, and burn this fucking city from the ground up."

A roar of approval erupted, men battered their shields together, their swords, a rumbling of bodies, a smack of steel on steel, leather on leather. They were ready to destroy this city, after many failed campaigns, they were ready to see into the great underground city of Bal'vold, and bring these dwarven shits to their knees. Raising his hand, the men quieted, and Moore gave a grin, " Many of you probably have heard that Jewelstine has fallen. In the south, those fucks are going home, while we stand here and rot, a thousand miles away from a decent bed, and our lonely wives. If we're not quick, I bet the lot of them will be keepin' our women company soon 'nough, the lucky bastards. Know what I say to that? I think it's time we go home too, I think it's 'bout time Bal'vold falls." Another roar came, louder this time, as the man drew his sword, and hopped from the raise platform. They'd shout, in joy, in rage, readying themselves for battle. It was good of them to do so, because less then a hundred meters away, the desolate cave that led to the underground city of Bal'vold stood. Hoping on a well trained horse, Moore gestured them forward, and in an unorganized and barbaric mass, they'd rush forward. It was time to meet with their brethren in the center of Bal'vold, it was time to go home.

--

Corporal Andrew Moore lay bashed and bloody on the stony ground, his horse had been shot from beneath him, and was screeching loudly to his side, the man having luckily flown far enough away to have not been crushed beneath it, but he'd been thoroughly trampled by his own men during the battle, the cave opening into a massive cavern. Intricately carved stone walls rose to the ceiling, with only tiny slits for a Dwarven archer or cannon to shoot from. One massive door rose nearly as high, of a thick and weathered wood. Lifting his head, Andrew's vision spun, and he'd feel an urge to vomit, however, he'd fight it, listening to the screams of beast and man alike, and scattered around were the dead and dying.

Had they made it at least, had they done it? He urged himself to sit up, but as he did, and looked toward those massive iron-banded doors, he saw that they were closed, and once more his vision spun, and he'd vomit down his front. Interestingly enough, as he stared down at himself, he was covered in a mixture of his own blood, and his horses. He found a few arrows poking through his thigh and stomach, and laid back miserably. He was going to die. Though, oddly enough he felt no pain, rather a soothing numbness. Every sense told him he should be screaming, but instead, in the dimness of the cavern, he reflected on his life. Most notably, he thought of how he had not struck down a single dwarf, and felt a bit of regret with that. Somewhere in the back of his mind...he knew that the gates not opening would be bad...The King-..his mind whispered, but then he felt like laughing.

What could the King do now? He was going to die-...Then horror struck him, and the man tried to sit up once more, his eyes painfully opening...and his breath coming out in ragged gasps. His family...By the Gods...

In front of Andrew, a pale face looked over him...his wife-..wasn't it? With white hair, and white eyes...No, his wife had hair of copper...and her eyes were green. This girl-...it must be his daughter then. The man smiled to her, and she smiled back, cradling him against her lap, yes..it was his daughter, she had gotten big, when he'd seen her last, she'd just been in a cradle. His mind fumbled over that, she should only be a toddler, but this girl looked older. Parts of him reminded that there was no time to be worrying about that. He'd try to raise a hand, to touch her face, cooing weakly, " Coleen..." The girl nodded, lightly pushing his hand away, and he obeyed.

"Hello Corporal...What is your name?" She'd ask cheerily, and the man puzzled. Shouldn't his daughter know her own fathers name? But he chided himself soon after, how silly, she was just a baby, how would she know his name.

After blinking up at him, and releasing a sigh, feeling comforted against her lap, and wondering why he'd sat up at all, the man answered, " Corporal Andrew Moore, dear." He'd croak out, and his daughter smiled once more, which pleased him.

Then, her eyes went dark, and this made him cringe, " Rest now, You have lost the battle." He nodded, knowing his daughter was disappointed, and when she lowered her lips to his, he'd think it to be a kiss, but then..the world went black, and he felt his body cringe, and the pain became suddenly realize, then vanish...tears coming to his body, but he was soothed once more. Her voice cooed despite her lips against his, urging him to close his eyes, to let go. He was eager to let go, feeling himself go limp, and soon, and felt nothing, saw nothing, said nothing. Of course, he did not realize he was dead, Isa had to look at the withered corpses of an old man, shrunken in his proud uniform, and covered in a mixture of his own blood and vomit. Disgusted, the Witch pushed him away, noting his name.

Zarr would not reach him in time, but there were three more idiots that did survive this pathetic attempt at taking the city. Only one door had even opened, the eastern gate was rammed opened, and the force entered the city, eager to meet with the other three, however, that did not happen. And just as quickly as the doors had opened, they closed...and two thousand men were trapped inside, without any hope of escape, within an hour, they were either taken prisoner, or killed once the dwarves ran out of place to keep them. Her master would not much like this defeat, and she supposed it was about time for her to return, and tell him. Glancing around at all the dead and dying, the witch picked a rather young man, with a gash across his belly.

If any medics were coming to retrieve the living, which they weren't, the boy may have a chance. If he was really ambition, he may even be able to crawl to safety, but Isa would reach him much sooner, at her touch, he stopped screaming, and looked startled at her, murmuring, "Mum?"

She'd nod along, sighing, and with a few minutes, she'd leave another shrunken old man on the battlefield, wrinkled and liver-spotted. His white hair clutching desperately to his head and chin, and skin hanging from his bones. That was enough for now, and within a moment, it was as if the Witch had never been there, all that was left were two impossibly old corpses.

I hope this is sufficient for you!

[High Casual to Advanced] Roleplay is my Heroine

Did you like that? My play on words right there, eh? Pretty good, heroin, heroine, like, the drug, and a female hero? Yeah, I thought it was pretty witty too.

Alright, enough with my fictional conversations! Welcome to my Interest Check, as you might have noticed, it's conveniently filed away in the 1v1 Interest Check bin, as in, I am in search of some one on one roleplays with you wonderful people! I'm Alex by the way, and as you must be anticipating, I've got a few base rules to set. I'll try to keep it short and sweet, nobody likes reading the same stuff over!

1. I like quality over quantity, if I feel like you're writing style is below what I am used to, I most likely will not enjoy the rolepaly.

2. I've no limits with much of anything, I do tend to fade to black, but if you don't want to, be my guest in describing every bodily fluid you can put a name to, just don't expect me to be so inclined. Gore, on the other hand-... I love me some grittiness.

3. This is not as much of a requirement, as it is a preference. I love antagonists, if you figure yourself a good bad guy, send me a PM, because I will eat it right up. That being said, emotionally complex characters, with detectable personalities are a million times better than some run-of-the-mill cliche, evil, mustache twirling villain.

4. I tend to play the female role, and prefer MxF pairings. But I've no issue with doubling, and tend to multi-character eitherway.

Right, so, those are my basic rules, I'm actually not a very picky person, and as some of my other partners have said, I am a 'aggressive' plotter, aggressively excited, I assure you! I like to yell out ideas, and just wild plot twists with no warning. Now, here are some Settings/Pairings I'd be interested in. There are a million others, but these few will give you an idea! I've arranged them according to time period, from the most modern I'm willing to go, to way back in ye' old history.

Settings

WWII
Eastern Europe's Monarchy
Victorian England
French Revolution
Some Got'damn Pirates
Industrial England
World Exploration
The Enlightenment
German Principalities
Renaissance Italy
Crusades
Middle-Eastern/African Civilization during Middle Ages
Dark Ages
Mutha'fuckin' Vikings
Mongolian's bein' Mongolians
Rome
Fantasy (High, Mid, Low)
Steampunk

Now, as you might of noticed, some of those aren't even settings, but you get the idea! Now onto my pairings...

Pairings

Axis Soldier x Civilian
Axis Soldier x Captured Allied Nurse/Troop
Captured Axis Soldier x Allied Nurse/Troop
Axis Soldier x Refugee
Allied Soldier x Allied Nurse
Allied Soldier x Axis Nurse/troop

Czar x Czarina
Russian Serf x Russian Serf
Other Nobility shit.

Fancy Victorian Nobleman x Fancy Victorian Noblewoman
Fancy Victorian Nobleman x Shit poor Factory Worker Woman
King x Queen
King x Courtesan
Poor people with all this lushness 'round them.

Revolutionary x Monarchist
French Police Officer x Man who stole bread

Pirate x Pirate
British Captain x Pirate
I'unno, Pirate Bullshit.

Factory Worker x Factory Worker

Explorer x Native
Explorer x other explorer

Philosopher x Dumb person
Dumb Person x Philosopher
Philosopher x Wife

Fucking Prince x Prince(ss)
WARING NATIONS YO'
Werewolf x not werewolf
Dissenting Prince x Diplomat
Nobility x Serf
Lotsa' stuff

Person from farmland x City person
Painter x painter
Nobility x peasant
Nobility x Serf

Knight x Civilian
Nobleman x Soldier
Knight x Foreign Preistess

Master x Slave
King x White Diplomat

King x Queen
Prince x Princess
Lord x Lady
Knight x Damsel in Distress
Literally anything ever.

Viking raider x Unfortunate raidee
Viking man x Viking wife
Shield maidens and shit.

Genghis Khan esque x Poor Villages.
Mongolian x Other Mongolian

Gladiator x Gladiator
Russel Crowe x Me (Yummy)
Emperor x Empress
Peasant x Peasant

Elves and shit. Magic yo'

Human x Faerie

Thief x Thief

There y'go, lots...and lots...of pairings. All of them I made up on the spot, and most are pretty generic.

In case you need one, here's a writing sample, and if you're interested in role playing with me, just shoot me a PM. Even if you don't got any idea what you want to do, I'm willing to plot, and we'll have one soon enough!

Thanks for reading my interest check, lovelies, hopefully I'll see some of you soon!

Writing Sample

Above the Southern Gate into Bal'vold, Evening.

In front of Colonel Andrew Moore stood five thousand men. Their dark eyes shined by the torch light that flickered between the masses, reflected from their armor, and projected around. Each man was silent as a corpse, and he bet many would end the night like that. Still, the Colonel took a deep breath, watching his men with a mixture of pride, and a sad realization. This was all he had left, half of his ten thousand were either in the grave, or had fled home, and quite honestly, he wished to join them. This was an impossible feat, to take the city of Bal'vold, and though his superiors told him they were winning, he did not believe it. This stubborn and wretched land was made of mud, and fought as hard against them as the dwarves. It seemed like he was forever being outflanked, forever loosing troves of men to the damned forests, and the fabled beasts of legend that apparently inhabited it. Of course, the sensible Moore knew better then to believe such nonsense, but it was quite haunting, still, and in his moments of doubt, often he'd catch himself remarking on how those glowing balls of light, obviously some sort of exotic relative to their fireflies, in some light, seemed to be surrounding a tiny body. And if you listened, it seemed like the chiming laughter of a child. But that was the talk of fools, for everyone knew there was no such thing as magic, and Fae.

"Men!" He'd begin, shaking away the thoughts of what craziness surrounded him, and deepening his voice, reassuring, and in every respect, that of a natural born leader. These were his men, and he had one final chance to lead them. The General had given him his ultimatum, the southern door into Bal'vold fell tonight, or the King would be giving them an unpleasant visit. He thought he could fear nothing more, until the messenger informed him that his family would be receiving one shortly after, and that awoke a whole knew form a terror to the man, who did not even realize he could be so fearful.

"Men!" Once more, he repeated, before his speech began, " Tonight, we take the southern gates of Bal'vold, you and I will stride into Bal'vold, and we shall secure it in the name of our brave King. As we speak, our brethren are securing the Eastern, Western, and even the Great Northern gates. And they're waiting oh-so patiently for us, to knock down these midget-savage's door, and burn this fucking city from the ground up."

A roar of approval erupted, men battered their shields together, their swords, a rumbling of bodies, a smack of steel on steel, leather on leather. They were ready to destroy this city, after many failed campaigns, they were ready to see into the great underground city of Bal'vold, and bring these dwarven shits to their knees. Raising his hand, the men quieted, and Moore gave a grin, " Many of you probably have heard that Jewelstine has fallen. In the south, those fucks are going home, while we stand here and rot, a thousand miles away from a decent bed, and our lonely wives. If we're not quick, I bet the lot of them will be keepin' our women company soon 'nough, the lucky bastards. Know what I say to that? I think it's time we go home too, I think it's 'bout time Bal'vold falls." Another roar came, louder this time, as the man drew his sword, and hopped from the raise platform. They'd shout, in joy, in rage, readying themselves for battle. It was good of them to do so, because less then a hundred meters away, the desolate cave that led to the underground city of Bal'vold stood. Hoping on a well trained horse, Moore gestured them forward, and in an unorganized and barbaric mass, they'd rush forward. It was time to meet with their brethren in the center of Bal'vold, it was time to go home.

--

Corporal Andrew Moore lay bashed and bloody on the stony ground, his horse had been shot from beneath him, and was screeching loudly to his side, the man having luckily flown far enough away to have not been crushed beneath it, but he'd been thoroughly trampled by his own men during the battle, the cave opening into a massive cavern. Intricately carved stone walls rose to the ceiling, with only tiny slits for a Dwarven archer or cannon to shoot from. One massive door rose nearly as high, of a thick and weathered wood. Lifting his head, Andrew's vision spun, and he'd feel an urge to vomit, however, he'd fight it, listening to the screams of beast and man alike, and scattered around were the dead and dying.

Had they made it at least, had they done it? He urged himself to sit up, but as he did, and looked toward those massive iron-banded doors, he saw that they were closed, and once more his vision spun, and he'd vomit down his front. Interestingly enough, as he stared down at himself, he was covered in a mixture of his own blood, and his horses. He found a few arrows poking through his thigh and stomach, and laid back miserably. He was going to die. Though, oddly enough he felt no pain, rather a soothing numbness. Every sense told him he should be screaming, but instead, in the dimness of the cavern, he reflected on his life. Most notably, he thought of how he had not struck down a single dwarf, and felt a bit of regret with that. Somewhere in the back of his mind...he knew that the gates not opening would be bad...The King-..his mind whispered, but then he felt like laughing.

What could the King do now? He was going to die-...Then horror struck him, and the man tried to sit up once more, his eyes painfully opening...and his breath coming out in ragged gasps. His family...By the Gods...

In front of Andrew, a pale face looked over him...his wife-..wasn't it? With white hair, and white eyes...No, his wife had hair of copper...and her eyes were green. This girl-...it must be his daughter then. The man smiled to her, and she smiled back, cradling him against her lap, yes..it was his daughter, she had gotten big, when he'd seen her last, she'd just been in a cradle. His mind fumbled over that, she should only be a toddler, but this girl looked older. Parts of him reminded that there was no time to be worrying about that. He'd try to raise a hand, to touch her face, cooing weakly, " Coleen..." The girl nodded, lightly pushing his hand away, and he obeyed.

"Hello Corporal...What is your name?" She'd ask cheerily, and the man puzzled. Shouldn't his daughter know her own fathers name? But he chided himself soon after, how silly, she was just a baby, how would she know his name.

After blinking up at him, and releasing a sigh, feeling comforted against her lap, and wondering why he'd sat up at all, the man answered, " Corporal Andrew Moore, dear." He'd croak out, and his daughter smiled once more, which pleased him.

Then, her eyes went dark, and this made him cringe, " Rest now, You have lost the battle." He nodded, knowing his daughter was disappointed, and when she lowered her lips to his, he'd think it to be a kiss, but then..the world went black, and he felt his body cringe, and the pain became suddenly realize, then vanish...tears coming to his body, but he was soothed once more. Her voice cooed despite her lips against his, urging him to close his eyes, to let go. He was eager to let go, feeling himself go limp, and soon, and felt nothing, saw nothing, said nothing. Of course, he did not realize he was dead, Isa had to look at the withered corpses of an old man, shrunken in his proud uniform, and covered in a mixture of his own blood and vomit. Disgusted, the Witch pushed him away, noting his name.

Zarr would not reach him in time, but there were three more idiots that did survive this pathetic attempt at taking the city. Only one door had even opened, the eastern gate was rammed opened, and the force entered the city, eager to meet with the other three, however, that did not happen. And just as quickly as the doors had opened, they closed...and two thousand men were trapped inside, without any hope of escape, within an hour, they were either taken prisoner, or killed once the dwarves ran out of place to keep them. Her master would not much like this defeat, and she supposed it was about time for her to return, and tell him. Glancing around at all the dead and dying, the witch picked a rather young man, with a gash across his belly.

If any medics were coming to retrieve the living, which they weren't, the boy may have a chance. If he was really ambition, he may even be able to crawl to safety, but Isa would reach him much sooner, at her touch, he stopped screaming, and looked startled at her, murmuring, "Mum?"

She'd nod along, sighing, and with a few minutes, she'd leave another shrunken old man on the battlefield, wrinkled and liver-spotted. His white hair clutching desperately to his head and chin, and skin hanging from his bones. That was enough for now, and within a moment, it was as if the Witch had never been there, all that was left were two impossibly old corpses.

Post Your Pikcha

Oh, we're posting pictures of ourselves?

Regular

Artsy AF

Marches of Man: the Black Shields. [ALWAYS OPEN]

Lady Sara

Caught in a daze, Sara was stirred by presence of another- a man. A man in the Black Shields uniform, at that. Her eyes had been deep out, past the initial crowd around them, exploring the mannerisms of the huddled crowds, and was amused to find how they separated themselves by group. It’d seem Lords of similar region often were together, which in her mind made sense, they knew each other, of course they would stand bunched together. The girl was hoping to find a Lord she recognized from northern Grosswik to lead her to her uncle, but even that was impossible with so many bodies. Her grey eyes turned away from the crowd as that man sat beside her, regarding him curiously, just as he began to speak.

A soft smile crossed her lips, crinkling the corners of her eyes as one hand came graciously to her breastbone, fingertips pressed softly to the warm skin, “Thank you, Sir-…” Her hand lifted then, to push back a feather of hair behind her ear, “You are too kind. I don’t mind in the slightest, but it’s not my mind that matters. Mr. Hoffman is here, is he not? Mr. Terryn Hoffman? I do not mean to nag you-…but for your own sake, it might be best if you sat up, looked vigilant.” As she spoke, her pleasant smile never faltered, finding his nonchalant attitude humorous. Surely, he was making a joke, no actual guard would ever think sleeping while you were supposed to be watching over the Crowned Prince would be acceptable. If Terryn found him here like this, he’d likely be livid. Sara couldn’t even imagine her father’s reaction, usually such a calm, steady man, but to see this mockery of soldiery would awake demons within him.

“Here, speak with me then, that ought to keep you awake. I am Lady Sara Medved, daughter of Lord-Captain Nikolas Medved- of the Black Shields.” She added, giving him a sweet grin because that information was probably startling. He could not have predicted that the girl he would slump beside would be the daughter of an officer, a influential one at that. Politely, she offered the man her ivory gloved hand, the bracelet of pearls falling down her wrist toward the elbow with a pleasant clanking.

“And you, Sir?” Though he would know just by looking at her, she was still fairly young, the young lady carried herself with a sort of finesse and politeness very becoming to her. She spoke with a pleasant accent to her word, careful to take the time and annunciate, and unlike the other, she seemed to care little if he was a commoner or noble. Sara had no way of knowing then, and she’d assumed wrongly that because he was a grunt soldier in the Black Shields, he surely was a layman. Also unlike the other, Sara lacked the same bias, having lived among commoners her entire life, and though she might have preferred to speak to a noble, not out of hate, but for her enthrallment in their lifestyle, any conversation at this point was welcomed

Marches of Man: the Black Shields. [ALWAYS OPEN]

@Kho Damn, it's all good. I feel really bad, I totally forgot about it!

@Renny Sounds good to me!

Marches of Man: the Black Shields. [ALWAYS OPEN]

Oh my god@Kho I'm so sorry for not responding! I totally forgot I will tomorrow asap. You're welcome to be Saras escort

Marches of Man: the Black Shields. [ALWAYS OPEN]

Lady Sara

Staring into a mirror at her reflection, Sara’s hands came instinctively to her waist, pinching the poor thing in, an analyzing frown tight on her lips. The gown fit as it should, a milky ivory wrapped around her arms, though with the whole of her shoulder blades exposed. Atop the pearly white, petal-shaped pieces of turquoise were sewn overlapping, first bunched together, but just beneath her chest, they slowly began to wane, exposing the white most stunningly at the thin of her waist. And it was tight in the bodice, just as it should be, all the way down until the petals, this time slightly darker, bunched atop her hips in a tight band. Beneath it, loose fabric began, folded in irregular, but beautiful shapes, like mountain tops on a distant horizon. All the way to the floor, the aqua dripped from her, flowing and shimmering as light passed through the many slightly translucent layers. It was a gorgeous dress, her most gorgeous dress, the dulled aqua and ivory having an almost tragic beauty when paired together. Sara stared at this dress, her frown growing more deep set as she did. She loved the gown; it had been a gift from her father for her fifteenth birthday. A very expensive gift at that, and she’d known at first glance he had not just seen the thing through a shop window. No, this was the type of dress that had been commissioned, perhaps worth more than a month of a typical seamstresses wages. When she’d pulled it from the box, Sara could feel the fine fabric slipping through her fingers, and just as delicately as she had raised it, she had put it back, too afraid that she might ruin it simply by touch. It was not a day dress, not the type of dress she ever even unpacked, knowing that a field was no place for it. There had never been an occasion worth something so fine, and after a month, the gown was all but forgotten. Even the night prior to the feast, Sara had not remembered the dress. It wasn’t until her eyes opened for the morn, did she recall the gown and go tearing after it.

And now it was on, fitting as any good dress should, but still Sara did not feel at ease with it. Surely, a hundred other girls would be wearing dresses of similar elegance, and she had no reason to feel overdressed, yet she did. It felt false to wear something so nice, like she was hiding behind it, trying to appear like something she was not. Standing there, caught in her own gaze, Sara took a deep breath, her gloved hands gathering folds on either side of her gown, and lifted the end as her legs folded in a curtsy. All the while, her eyes remained transfixed on themselves, a smile crossing her lips, as well as an introduction, “Lady Sara Medved-…” The girl paused, to give time for her imaginary stranger to reply, before she continued on, her smile plastered on her face, “Enchanted.”

Her mock meeting was broken by a startling call, he might have knocked, if the door was anything besides thin canvas.

“Sara?”

The girl nearly jumped out of her shoes to the voice of her father, soothing out the flare of her skirt, and stepping away from the mirror, face glowing red nonetheless. Nikolas Medved waited a few cautionary seconds, listening for any call of ‘Wait’, for he wanted to catch her in a compromising moment just as little as she. So the man waited, silent and politely, before slipping a gloved hand through the flap, and stepping in.

Nikolas was not an all-and-all imposing man. He stood a basic 5’9”, with a close-cut head of graying brown hair, and a peppered beard to match. Though he rarely smiled, his face was not that of a bitter man, instead he’d look idly serious, brown eyes staring out, startled by his daughter’s gown as much as she’d been startled by his voice.

“Where did you get that?” He asked in disbelief, stepping closer to the girl, who looked away in quiet embarrassment.

“My birthday; you gave it to me.” She answered, peering up at him, and the almost scared look on his face only adding to her embarrassment, “Stop looking at me like that-..What’s wrong? It looks okay, doesn’t it?”

Her voice sped with paranoia, but the man nodded slowly, uncharacteristically delayed as he looked her over one last time, “I bought you that? Bless the Monarch-…Wear a cloak, there must have been a mistake, never would I intentionally buy you a gown without shoulders.”

Sara, who was already terrified, now looked at her father in absolute horror, her hand coming to brush her shoulder, “Will I need-…Is this too much?” She asked him, to which the man scoffed.

“I only jest- Don’t worry, compared to many of the other women, you’ll be nothing but modest. Still, wear a cloak.” Though his voice was stern, it was not so stern that Sara thought him completely serious. He seemed a dry man, but beyond the first crack of his flat voice, there sat a layer of humor many missed.

In response, Sara smiled at him, twisting around, and pulling a cloak from its pile, “Of course, Father. I shan’t take it off the whole night.”

The man closed his eyes, a breath of air exiting through his nose, “I have been in the halls before, Sara. You’ll remove your cloak the second you walk in; far too hot.” Though he did not agree entirely with the dress, and yearned for any excuse to make the girl stay, Nikolas was a fair man. He had given the girl both the gown and his word, and neither would he deny her, no matter how much he wanted to. Instead, the man just sighed and shook his head, gesturing awkwardly out toward the door, “Are you nearly ready, Sara? I doubt you wish to be late. Your escort waits outside your door, once you are finished, he will take you to the feast, and bring you back, understood?”

Sara nodded, “Of course, Father. Thank you.” All the girl could do was grin at him, and as Nikolas turned away, her smile nearly made him turn back on his word, and force the girl to stay. She might hate him for it, but Nikolas was not ready for her to go, his poor sweet girl didn’t need to know the world she longed so desperately for. It wasn’t what she wanted, he knew that, but he also knew that she would have to discover that herself, no matter how much it might hurt her to realize. Children grow, even sweet and innocent ones, and so as Nikolas exited the tent, he looked toward the man placed in charge of his child.

“Take care of her for me.”

“Yes Sir.” The man answered, and Nikolas heard his salute, but was too far away by then to return it. Instead, he returned to work, knowing that the only way to keep himself from worrying was to keep busy.

--

Sara and her escort arrived just as the crowd was at its thickest. A line of noble bodies were streaming into the castle without the least form of discipline or order. It was all very exciting to her, passing by a hundred new people in a matter of minutes. Her hands held onto her skirt, lifting it a couple inches off the ground, her flat, opal slippers stepping carefully across the stone, up the stairs, and eventually, through the door. As she climbed the steps, Sir Elvin kept close, dressed up in a soldiery uniform, one not meant for actual defense as it had no plate nor helmet, but for ceremony. His job seemed more to watch over her than to defend the girl, though should the time come, he still had a short sword swinging from his hip. But once she had passed through the doors, Sara looked back, and his face was gone, sunk to some railing perhaps, or down to the courtyard. At least, that’s what Sara hoped for the last thing she wanted was to be chastised for losing her guard. The girl didn’t concern herself too long about it, giving a quick glance around, before continuing into the feasting hall, the general flow leading her there easy enough.

Wandering through the open hall, she noted the stage- for the entertainment, and the raised table- for the entertained, the royal family. Both of these things would be where her attention would lay throughout the night, ever eager to take in what she could. So far, the girl felt unnoticed, which was a good feeling, for Sara feared that they would point her out like a spectacle, wonder ‘who’s that’ and perplex when they couldn’t put a name to her face. There were just so many nobles, from so many places, nobody noticed there was one very few knew the name of. It was relieving to her that she fit in among them, perhaps a bit more wonderstruck because this was all new, but otherwise, it wasn’t as if she was a moth amongst butterflies.

Suddenly, a hush filled the hall, and Sara turned along with countless others to see the King and Queen enter. Her hands folded carefully in front of her, one twisting along the pearl bracelet she wore, the other hanging loose. Never in her life had Sara seen the King, and it was quite awing to her now, watching how his wife folded delicately into her chair, and how he spoke with such confidence. It seemed perfect to her; just as she had imagined it. The moment was quick, and soon the attention shifted from the King back to the man beside them, chatter beginning again. Sara turned away as politely as everyone else, though every so often, she glanced back at the royalty, weaving carefully so that she was close enough to see them, but not too close that she’d be noticed.

Standing alone, Sara hadn’t the gall to introduce herself to anyone. Surely, there would be friends of her father she might know- perhaps even her Uncle was here, but so far, Sara hadn’t seen anybody of notability. Instead she stood alone, quietly regarding others, her hair braided loosely down her back, short pieces falling out, curling themselves up against her chin. While she adjusted one piece, the elder Prince entered, and Sara was as stunned as any girl. It just wasn’t fair, he was handsome, he was powerful, he was a Prince for the Monarch’s sake. What girl wouldn’t immediately swoon? Sara wasn’t such a fool that she’d think that she’d ever get the chance to even talk to the Prince, but a girl could at least pretend.

For a while, she stood there, watching the royalty enter, first Dorran, than Bjorn, and finally Caterina. The older Princess’ were no where to be sighted, at least by Sara’s eye, and so slowly, the girl drifted off to one of the many tables, taking a seat, but with no appetite in her belly. Eventually, she assured herself, she was bound to see someone she recognized. Until then, the girl sat off alone, peering around with wide-eyed enthusiasm, not yet concerned with her lonesome, plenty of people were sitting alone, and looking quite fashionable while doing so.

Marches of Man: the Black Shields. [ALWAYS OPEN]

@dreamingflowers I sensed a Phantom of the Opera allusion too, but I don't know if it was intentional?